• 


HER  JOURNEY'S  END 


OF  GALIF.  MWARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


HER  JOURNEY'S  END 


BY 

FRANCES  COOKE 

Author  of  "The  Secret  of  the  Green  Vase,"  "My  Lady  Beatrice,' 
"The  Unbidden  Guest"  etc. 


•*• 


NEW  YORK,  CINCINNATI,  CHICAGO 

BENZIGER    BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS  OF  BENZIGER's  MAGAZINE 


COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY  BENZIOER  BBOTHBB* 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  PROBLEMS 7 

II.  A  STBANGE  ENCOUNTER     ....  19 

III.  LYNDHURST  AFFAIRS 33 

IV.  RETROSPECTION         42 

V.  A  MESSAGE  UNDELIVERED 56 

VI.  GREGORY  LACKLAND  AT  HOME     ...  67 

VII.  THE  DAYS  BETWEEN 80 

VIII.  THE  BIRD  OF  PASSAGE 91 

IX.  HELEN  MAKES  A  PROMISE 108 

X.  A  MESSAGE 119 

XI.  FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  THE  ENEMY     .     .  130 

XII.  MARION  SIGOGNE  LEARNS  SOMETHING     .  142 

XIII.  GREGORY  DEALS  WITH  PENNISTON     .     .  155 

XIV.  A  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK 168 

XV.  PAULINE'S  DETERMINATION     ....  182 

XVL  MRS.  LACKLAND  is  STRICKEN  ....  195 

XVTL  HELEN  is  DEFIANT 209 

XVIII.  MRS.  SIGOGNE  HAS  A  VISITOR  ....  221 

XIX.  THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS    ....  232 

XX.  EXTRADITION 250 

XXI.  DISASTER 261 

XXIL  IN  THE  TOILS 273 

XXIII.  RESCUE! 286 

XXIV.  AND  LAST 299 

5 


2128914 


HER  JOURNEY'S  END 


CHAPTER  I 

PROBLEMS 

THE  girl  stood  looking  out  of  the  sacristy  win- 
dow, twisting  her  long  gloves  idly  through  her 
fingers,  her  glance,  meanwhile,  fastened  on  the 
hurrying  men  and  women  who  were  passing  on 
to  the  big  gray  factories  at  the  other  end  of  the 
town.  The  shrill  whistles  which  announced  that 
the  day  of  toil  had  begun  sounded  in  her  ears, 
piercingly,  almost  menacingly.  As  she  watched, 
and  the  last,  long-drawn-out  note  of  the  siren 
quivered  and  died  on  the  crisp  air,  the  street 
seemed  to  clear  almost  magically,  for  not  to  be 
inside  those  gates  when  the  whistle  ceased  meant 
the  loss  of  a  day's  work — a  thing  no  man  or  woman 
among  them  could  afford.  The  girl,  however,  did 
not  move  as  the  street  grew  quiet,  but  stared  out  in 
abstracted  fashion,  and  presently  the  low,  hum- 
ming sound  of  countless  machines  fell  on  her  ears. 
That  sound  roused  her.  She  turned  away  with  a  low 


8  PROBLEMS 

sigh,  just  as  Father  Richards  bade  adieu  to  some 
one  at  the  door  and  came  back  into  the  sacristy — 
a  small,  thin  priest,  with  mild  blue  eyes,  and  a  kind 
face  to  which  the  thick,  snow-white  hair  above  his 
forehead  lent  dignity  and  a  certain  austereness. 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  began,  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
"I  did  not  mean  to  keep  you  waiting.  You  have 
that  long  walk  to  Lyndhurst  before  you,  and  fast- 
ing, too!  Won't  you  let  Ann  give  you  a  cup  of 
coffee?" 

"No,  Father,"  said  the  girl.  "I  do  not  mind 
fasting — that  is  the  least  one  can  do."  She  smiled 
then.  "I  am  somewhat  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  be- 
cause I  do  need  your  advice  and  don't  know  how 
to  ask  for  it." 

"Come!  That's  good!"  His  kind  blue  eyes 
laughed  at  her. 

"Yesterday,  on  my  way  home  from  Mass,  Mr. 
Williamson  met  me.  Now,  please  don't  look  grave 
yet,  Father.  You  know  I've  been  to  see  his  mother 
frequently  this  last  month — the  poor,  bedridden 
soul ! — and  I'm  sure  he  knows  how  I  feel  toward — 
toward  everything.  He  said  that  they  are  going  to 
call  on  my — on  Mrs.  Lackland  personally — a  com- 
mittee of  them,  over  Mr.  Boring's  head.  Did  you 
know  that?" 


PROBLEMS  9 

"Yes — I  advised  them  to  do  that,  Pauline." 

"Well.  He  seemed  to  feel  that  my  intervention 
would  help." 

"Did  he  say  so?" 

"He  implied  as  much." 

"And  you " 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Fin  not  sure,  Father.  If  it  did  not  help  a  great 
deal,  it  would  harm  as  much.  Aunt  Laura  has  such 
peculiar  ideas  about  the  factories — she  simply  will 
not  be  advised  or  controlled  or  argued  with " 

"I  know  that,"  said  Father  Richards.  "I  have 
spoken  to  her  on  more  than  one  occasion." 

"That  is  it — you  understand,"  continued  the 
girl.  "I  feel  that  she  cares  for  me  very  much  and 
several  times  I've  mentioned — well,  little  things. 
She  has  listened  without  comment  .  .  .  per- 
haps even  with  indulgence.  But  it  hasn't  amounted 
to  anything." 

"Nor  is  it  likely  that  it  will,"  said  Father  Rich- 
ards slowly.  "My  advice  to  you  would  be  to  say 
nothing  at  all  now,  Pauline.  If  she  is  prepared 
for  Williamson's  visit,  she  may  be  on  guard — and 
perhaps  a  trifle  prejudiced.  You  know  she  feels 
that  you  are  scarcely  a  judge — a  girl  just  out  of 
her  teens "  He  smiled. 


10  PROBLEMS 

"Then  I'll  run  on.  I  felt  just  that  way — some 
instinct  told  me  that,  but  I  wanted  your  word  as 
well.  I  should  not  like  to  think  afterward 
that  I  could  have  done  anything  and  would  not." 
She  drew  her  gloves  on  hastily.  "I  must  be  going 
— Lyndhurst  is  a  good  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
off " 

"You  are  sure  you  will  not  take  some  cof- 
fgg » 

"Thank  you,  I  positively  do  not  care  for  any- 
thing, Father.  Good  morning." 

The  priest  smiled  and  nodded  and  then,  as  she 
left  the  room  he  went  over  to  the  high  desk,  from 
which  he  picked  up  his  breviary  absently.  There  was 
a  new  line  of  worry  between  the  kind  blue  eyes,  and 
he  stood  staring  before  him  for  some  minutes.  His 
housekeeper  came  along  the  hall  and  looked  in  at  him 
inquiringly.  She  wanted  to  satisfy  herself  that  no 
indiscreet  caller  was  robbing  Father  Kichards  of  a 
much  needed  breakfast.  Very  much  needed,  indeed, 
for  he  had  been  called  out  twice  since  midnight. 
***** 

The  young  girl  made  her  way  hurriedly  through 
the  lower  part  of  the  town,  and  went  out  past  the 
cluster  of  cottages  that  bordered  the  "Lyndhurst 
road,"  as  it  was  called.  From  here  it  was  a  brisk 


PROBLEMS  11 

walk  of  half  an  hour  to  reach  Lyndhurst  itself. 
About  the  same  time  a  young  man  of  about  her 
own  age,  with  his  gun  slung  over  his  shoulder,  and 
whistling  merrily,  walked  with  brisk  steps  through 
the  narrow  path  that  led  from  the  dense  woods  of 
Squaw  Island  to  the  shores  lapped  by  the  little 
bay — Squaw  Bay  they  called  it,  for  the  want  of  a 
better  name.  There  was  a  slight  breeze,  which 
served  but  to  make  the  morning  more  agreeable, 
and  he  threw  back  his  head  several  times,  inhaling 
the  piney  odor,  so  sharply  intensified  by  the  fresh- 
ness of  a  perfect  October  morning. 

There  was  a  small  skiff  fastened  to  the  shore. 
He  threw  his  game-bag  and  gun  down,  and  then 
sprang  in  himself.  To  reach  the  land  opposite  was 
but  the  work  of  a  few  moments,  and  then  he 
vaulted  over  the  low,  rough  stone  wall  that  skirted 
a  stretch  of  beautiful  park  land,  dodging  in  and 
out  between  the  trees  to  make  a  cross-cut  toward 
the  substantial  gray  stone  mansion  that  seemed, 
in  spite  of  its  massive  size,  to  lurk  behind  the 
giant  maples  that  closely  surrounded  it.  Here  he 
seated  himself  on  the  terrace  and  lighted  a  cigar, 
puffing  at  it  contentedly,  while  he  drew  a  paper 
from  his  pocket  and  began  to  read. 

The  whole  appearance  of  the  young  man  de- 


12  PROBLEMS 

noted  a  certain  refined  elegance.  He  was  some- 
what boyish  of  form,  his  features  were  open  and 
frank,  his  eyes  a  clear  dark  brown,  and  his  hair 
was  a  wavy  chestnut.  As  is  the  way  with  some 
youths  of  twenty-one,  he  was  rather  vain  of  his 
personal  appearance.  Nor  could  he  be  blamed  for 
this — up  to  the  present  he  had  had  little  else  to 
worry  over. 

"Lucky  that  a  cigar  before  breakfast  does  not 
spoil  my  appetite,"  he  mused,  half  aloud.  "And 
mother  will  not  say  that  I  don't  do  the  meal  jus- 
tice this  morning.  It  certainly  has  been  good 
sport " 

The  noise  of  the  opening  and  shutting  of  the 
gates  at  the  entrance  made  him  look  up  with  some 
surprise.  Then  he  saw  through  the  trees  a  girlish 
form  in  a  long,  light  coat,  and  he  rose. 

"Out  again,  Pauline!"  he  said,  as  she  ap- 
proached. "Where  have  you  been?" 

"To  town,"  she  answered  casually.  She  came 
up  the  steps  and  sat  on  the  stone  bench  beside 
him.  "To  Mass.  And  then  I  waited  to  watch  the 
people — those  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  people — 
going  to  work  in  the  factories.  Your  factories, 
Bertram." 

Pauline  Faulkner  was  a  year  younger  than  Ber- 


PROBLEMS  13 

tram  Lackland,  but  her  face  was  so  childishly 
round,  her  lips  so  red  and  babyish,  that  she  would 
have  appeared  less  than  twenty  were  it  not  for 
the  grave  expression  of  her  eyes.  Those  eyes 
seemed  to  have  mirrored  thoughts  that  are  not 
wont  to  youth,  and  a  keen  reader  of  character 
would  have  asserted  that  she  had  seen  the  hardships 
of  life,  if  not  felt  them.  At  first  sight,  caught 
with  the  reserved,  almost  repressed,  look  that  was 
habitual  to  her,  she  might  not  seem  even  pretty. 
But  the  fire  of  her  spirit  could  kindle  those  eyes 
and  cheeks  to  a  glow  of  beauty. 

"You  were  out  as  early  as  I"  she  said,  leaning 
back,  for  the  sense  of  rest  was  grateful  after  her 
long  walk.  She  pointed  to  the  well-filled  game- 
bag.  "Wild  duck!  And  the  season  opened  only 
yesterday.  You  have  lost  no  time." 

"I  could  not  help  it — the  morning  was  so  beau- 
tiful  » 

She  laughed. 

"Why,  you  are  not  trying  to  excuse  yourself  to 
me?" 

"For  taking  the  exercise  you  recommended  as 
necessary  ?  No,  indeed !" 

"The  best  exercise  in  the  world  for  a  frivolous, 
vain  youth." 


14  PROBLEMS 

"Frivolous!  Vain!"  He  was  a  little  offended 
now.  He  sat  looking  at  her,  trying  to  read  her 
expression.  He  had  unusual  respect  for  Pauline. 
He  fancied  that  he  himself  was  quite  a  student 
of  the  problems  of  the  day — and  he  could  not  un- 
derstand the  slight  mockery  that  crept  into  her 
manner  when  he  would  discuss  any  question  of  the 
sort  with  her. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  have  a  poor  opinion  of  me, 
Pauline!" 

"I  have  no  opinion  at  all,"  she  said. 

"In  the  end  you  shall  have,"  he  said  with  con- 
viction. "Some  day  I  will  prove  to  you  that  I  am 
able  to  grasp  big  things  and  carry  them  to  exe- 
cution." 

The  girl  was  silent,  her  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy. 
What  a  contrast  presented  itself  to  her  view — in 
the  streets  filled  with  their  hurrying  throngs ;  the 
shrill  sound  of  the  factory  whistles  in  her  ear — 
and  this  cool,  indolent,  well-dressed,  blase  youth, 
who  spoke  of  problems,  and  used  the  cant  of  those 
who  would  fain  help  the  poor — with  words 
only. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  he  asked,  seeing 
that  she  did  not  mean  to  address  him  again. 

"Your  mother,"  she  answered.    "Of  the  count- 


PROBLEMS  15 

less  tasks  that  fill  out  her  day,  of  the  huge  inter- 
ests she  controls,  of  what  a  mighty  power  she  is 
in  the  commercial  world.  I  was  thinking  of  her — 
and  of  the  factories — and  of  you." 

It  was  his  turn  to  be  silent  then. 

"How  little  I  know  of  these  things/'  he  said 
half-musingly.  "I  wish  I  knew  more — yes,  I  wish 
that,  and  yet  I  could  never  grasp  the  subject  as 
you  would.  With  your  past  experience " 

A  slight  flush  rose  to  her  cheeks.  She  averted 
her  face. 

"My  past  experience  is  a  tabooed  subject,"  she 
said,  and  there  was  an  undercurrent  of  pain  in  her 
tones.  "Do  not  speak  of  it !  I  would  forget  that 
I  have  ever  lived —  Oh!  To  obliterate  from  my 
memory  all  that  lies  between  my  fifth  and  my 
twentieth  year — from  that  day  when  I  bade  an  un- 
conscious farewell  to  this,  my  country,  to  the  day 
when  I  came  back  to  it  .  .  .a  tired  child. 
..."  Her  voice  died  into  silence.  He  was 
touched  and  penitent. 

"Forgive  me,  Pauline.  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt 
you." 

"I  am  trying  to  forget,"  she  said  wearily.  "You 
must  help  me,  for  it  is  not  easy,  Bertram." 

Her  eyes  fell  on  the  paper  lying  at  her  feet,  and 


16  PROBLEMS 

the  scorn  she  could  not  repress  crept  into  her 
voice  once  more  as  she  read  its  name  aloud. 

"Anarchical  literature,  that !"  she  said.  "More 
work  for  poor  Father  Richards !" 

"Can  you  blame  me  for  wanting  to  learn  their 
creed  first-hand  ?"  he  said.  "Julian  Stanhope  told 
me  that  this  paper  would  prove  a  great  help  to  me. 
You  have  never  met  Julian  Stanhope,  Pauline,  but 
when  you  do  I  think  you  will  understand  the  rea- 
son why  I  am  inclined  to  take  the  socialistic  view 
of  matters  which " 

"He  can  only  repeat  just  what  I  have  heard  in 
every  shape,"  she  said.  "How  long  have  you 
known  him,  Bertram?" 

"Some  months  only — he  is  a  friend  of  Mrs. 
Sigogne's — the  chatelaine  of  The  Pines.  There 
will  be  another  study  for  you,  Pauline,  even  though 
Marion  Sigogne  has  no  interest  in  social  prob- 
lems. But  Stanhope  is  one  of  the  most  engaging 
of  men.  You  and  he  will  be  in  perfect  accord." 

"You  talk  as  if  you  knew  just  what  my  senti- 
ments are " 

"I  have  grown  to  understand  them.  I  have  cor- 
responded with  the  editor  of  that  sheet  you  de- 
spise." He  pointed  toward  it.  "I  can  find  noth- 
ing harmful  in  his  assertions." 


PROBLEMS  17 

"Bertram,"  said  the  girl  gently,  "I  pity  you. 
Oh,  I  know  Fin  younger  than  you — a  whole  year 
younger.  But  no  editor  could  convince  me — nor 
no  acquaintance  of  a  few  months'  standing  could 
persuade  me — deliberately  to  inveigh  against  the 
traditions  of  law  and  order  which  my  fathers  left. 
You're  doing  that,  deliberately.  As  for  the  creed 
of  humanity,  as  they  call  it — well,  if  you  could  go 
into  the  factories  you'd  find  it  there — and  I  shall 
be  surprised  if  it  does  not  show  itself  in  ugly 
fashion,  to  your  detriment,  some  day.  This  Julian 
Stanhope  is  a  much  older  man  than  you,  is  he  not  ? 
He  ought  tb  be  ashamed " 

"My  dear  girl !  If  you  think  Julian  Stanhope's 
ideas  would  cost  him  a  moment's  sacrifice,  you  are 
mistaken.  He  is  not  studying  these  things  to  put 
them  into  practice." 

"Oh !  I  see !"  She  sat  quiet  a  moment  or  two. 
Then  she  sighed.  "Poor  Father  Richards!"  she 
said  then.  "Poor  Father  Richards !" 

Bertram  would  have  asked  her  what  those  words 
meant.  He  was  looking  at  her  with  some  admira- 
tion in  his  glance,  for  the  discussion  had  brought 
a  new  light  into  her  eyes  and  color  to  her  cheeks. 
She  was  really  lovely,  he  thought.  At  that  mo- 
ment, however,  a  thin,  clean-shaven  man  came 


18  PROBLEMS 

out  on  the  terrace  through  the  open  window.  He 
approached  the  young  people  with  some  severity 
in  his  manner. 

"Breakfast  has  been  announced,"  he  said. 
"Mrs.  Lackland  has  sent  me  to  look  for  you." 

"Oh,  Bertram!"  cried  the  girl,  "I  must  brush 
myself  up  a  bit,  or  Aunt  Laura  will  never  forgive 
me.  Say  I  shall  be  down  in  a  second,  Mr.  Sands." 
With  a  laughing  glance  at  the  young  man,  she  dis- 
appeared. Mr.  Sands  looked  after  her  with  dis- 
approval, even  dislike  on  his  face.  Then  he  went 
inside  again,  and  Bertram  followed  him. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER 

FEW  people  outside  those  who  had  direct  deal- 
ings with  her  knew  that  the  sole  owner  and  the 
head  of  the  great  cotton  factories  known  as  The 
Lackland  Manufacturing  Company  was  a  woman. 
She  occupied  a  unique  position  in  the  business 
world,  and  the  immediate  and  allied  branches  of 
the  business  were  practically  unlimited.  There 
were  offices  in  all  the  leading  European  cities,  and 
the  product  of  the  factories  was  known  the  coun- 
try over.  Lyndhurst,  the  old  gray  stone  mansion 
set  well  away  from  the  busy  town,  had  been  built 
by  Gregory  Lackland  before  his  death,  so  that  he 
might  be  in  close  touch  with  the  two  big  factories 
he  had  built  in  thriving  New  England,  where  the 
crops  of  his  own  fields  in  the  South  were  converted 
into  products  famous  not  alone  in  the  home  mar- 
ket, but  the  markets  of  the  world,  typically  Amer- 
ican in  its  wide-spreading  interests. 

The  present  head  of  the  enterprise  was  as  coolly 
calculating,  as  far-seeing,  and  as  rigidly  conserva- 
tive as  had  been  the  founder,  Gregory  Lackland. 

In  his  lifetime  his  wife  had  worked  beside  and 
10 


20  A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER 

with  him,  and  he  had  profited  many  times  by  her 
advice.  He  left  his  affairs  entirely  in  her  hands 
at  his  death,  which  had  occurred  eleven  years  pre- 
vious to  the  opening  of  this  story.  His  two  sons, 
Gregory,  Jr.,  just  entering  college  and  in  his  seven- 
teenth year,  and  Bertram,  barely  ten  years  old, 
could  not  then  be  considered  factors  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  industry  which  was  to  perpetuate  his 
name.  He  made  no  provision  for  them.  His  wife 
had  begun  his  fortune  with  her  own  modest  one, 
and  had  increased  it  largely  since  by  her  quick 
grasp  of  affairs.  Therefore  to  her  should  be  left 
the  settlement  of  their  children  in  life,  her  hus- 
band realizing  that  what  she  would  do  would  be 
well  done. 

An  experienced  traveler,  it  was  Mrs.  Lackland's 
habit  to  pay  flying  visits  from  one  of  her  European 
offices  to  another,  as  the  fancy  took  her.  She  was 
a  good  woman,  though  not  in  any  sense  a  deeply 
religious  one.  She  fulfilled  the  duties  of  life  to  the 
letter,  and  was  exact  in  complying  with  the  regu- 
lations of  the  Church,  but  there  was  a  sense  of 
incomprehension  about  it  all,  as  if  nothing  had 
power  to  affect  or  touch  her — as  if  the  real  woman 
were  successfully  hidden. 

And  yet  she  dearly  loved  her  sons.     Gregory, 


A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER  21 

who  had  been  abroad  since  the  completion  of  his 
studies,  traveling  at  first,  and  then  in  charge  of  the 
London  branch,  was  the  hope  of  a  somewhat 
vaguely  planned  future.  She  smiled  at  Bertram's 
extravagant  notions,  his  vaunted  brotherly  equal- 
ity with  all  the  human  race,  and  gave  a  good- 
natured  ear  to  what  she  deemed  his  "schoolboy 
raving."  There  had  been  a  time  in  her  life  when 
she,  too,  had  studied  the  problems  of  life  which 
now  seemed  to  fill  the  volatile  mind  of  her  son. 
She  had  studied  them  and  pondered  on  them  and 
cast  them  aside  unsolved — as  Bertram  would,  she 
knew. 

She  had  returned  from  a  somewhat  protracted 
stay  abroad  about  six  months  previous,  and  on 
this  occasion,  the  young  stranger,  whom  she  intro- 
duced to  every  one  as  her  niece,  Pauline  Faulkner, 
accompanied  her.  The  coming  of  this  new  mem- 
ber of  the  household  had  been  unexpected — not 
even  Bertram  had  known  of  her  existence.  She 
spoke  English  with  an  accent  that  seemed  caught 
from  many  tongues,  due,  doubtless,  to  her  peculiar 
upbringing,  and  to  various  foreign  teachers;  an 
accent  which  even  the  short  space  of  six  months 
had  served  to  eradicate  greatly,  except  when  she 
grew  excited.  The  servants,  all  old  and  trusted 


22  A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER 

members  of  the  family,  scarcely  knew  how  to  take 
her.  She  carried  herself  like  a  princess,  and  yet 
with  a  certain  grave  humility  that  made  classifica- 
tion hard.  To  Mrs.  Lackland  she  was  all  sweet- 
ness and  affection.  To  Master  Bertram,  the  easy- 
going, well-beloved  young  master,  she  gave  scant 
courtesy,  often  unconcealed  ridicule.  She  took  a 
deep  interest  in  Mrs.  Lackland's  affairs,  and  the 
older  woman  allowed  her  much  liberty,  so  that 
presently  she  was  known  as  well  in  the  homes  of 
the  factory  folk  as  if  she  had  lived  among  them  all 
her  life.  Strangely  enough,  this  had  earned  her 
the  dislike  of  several  members  of  the  household, 
Mr.  Sands,  Mrs.  Lackland's  secretary,  being  par- 
ticularly annoyed. 

The  factories,  which  employed  so  many  thou- 
sands of  souls,  seemed  to  be  the  girl's  especial 
hobby.  Yet,  while  Mrs.  Lackland  listened  occa- 
sionally to  her  remarks  concerning  them,  she  was 
too  self-satisfied,  too  well-assured,  and  too  confi- 
dent of  her  own  ability,  to  do  more  than  listen. 
It  would  take  a  very  powerful  upheaval  of  the  so- 
cial conditions  surrounding  her  to  persuade  Laura 
Lackland  that  there  was  anything  wrong  with  her 
mode  of  procedure. 

Her  appearance,  as  she  sat  at  the  breakfast-table 


A.  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER  23 

this  morning,  substantiated  anything  that  might 
be  said  of  her  ability.  She  was  a  slender  woman, 
a  little  above  the  medium  height,  with  gray  eyes 
set  far  apart,  eyes  neither  large  nor  small,  but 
suggestive  of  hidden  power.  The  square  forehead 
above  them  argued  mentality,  the  firm  chin  and 
well-closed  lips  were  determined  without  being 
masculine.  She  looked  like  a  very  clever,  very 
positive,  very  proud  woman — and  no  one  would 
say  she  was  very  sensitive  or  very  yielding  or  very 
merciful.  She  had  been  born  to  rule — and  had 
carried  out  her  destiny. 

"Good  morning,  mother/'  said  Bertram  cheer- 
fully, as  he  entered  the  room  and,  as  was  his  cus- 
tom, bent  and  kissed  her.  Mrs.  Lackland  sur- 
veyed him  critically. 

"My  dear  lad!  What  a  way  to  appear  at  the 
breakfast-table!  Where  in  the  world  have  you 
been?" 

"Over  at  Squaw  Island  since  daybreak  this 
morning,  shooting.  I  will  brush  up  and  be  with 
you  in  a  jiffy." 

"Please  don't  keep  me  waiting,  Bertram.  I 
have  an  appointment  at  ten  o'clock.  Did  you  see 
Miss  Pauline,  Mr.  Sands?" 

Mr.   Sands,  standing  at  the  mantel  with  his 


24  A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER 

hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  turned  a  severe  face 
toward  her. 

"Miss  Pauline  was  on  the  terrace  with  Mr.  Ber- 
tram," he  said  evenly.  "She  has  gone  to  change 
her  dress,  as  she  has  been  down  to  the  factories,  I 
believe." 

He  said  this  quite  casually,  although,  as  Mrs. 
Lackland's  trusted,  secretary,  he  had  reason  to 
know  that,  in  spite  of  her  seeming  approval,  these 
early  morning  jaunts  annoyed  his  employer  very 
much.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  Bertram 
withdrew,  not  listening,  and  a  slight  frown  ap- 
peared between  the  lady's  finely  curved  black 
brows. 

"Mr.  Doring  is  very  much  disturbed  over  this/' 
said  Mr.  Sands  in  a  lower  tone.  "Perhaps  it 
would  be  as  well  to  ask  Miss  Pauline  to  stay " 

"Oh!  She  is  a  mere  child — a  girl  of  twenty! 
What  harm  can  it  do?  She  must  have  some 
amusement — and  if  this  amuses  her !"  Mrs.  Lack- 
land shrugged  her  shoulders.  "We  will  soon  have 
other  things  to  occupy  her  spare  time — dances  and 
parties  and  excursions.  This  fancy  will  wear  off." 

"But  Mr.  Doring " 

"I  can't  help  Mr.  Doring.  He  will  have  to  put 
up  with  it.  Ah,  Pauline !"  as  the  young  girl  en- 


A.  8TKANOE  ENCOUNTER  25 

tered,  with  Bertram  close  behind.  "I'm  afraid  I 
shall  have  to  make  the  breakfast  hour  either 
earlier  or  later." 

She  spoke  playfully,  and  the  girl's  face  lighted 
up. 

"Do,  please,  forgive  me,  Aunt  Laura !"  she  said 
penitently.  It  was  wonderful  what  a  charm  this 
softened  expression  gave  to  her  young  face.  Her 
countenance  in  repose  was  so  haughty  as  to  be  re- 
pellent. She  seemed,  usually,  to  look  upon  the 
world  with  disdain — a  world  to  which  she  meant 
little  and  in  which  she  occupied  but  a  small  place. 
As  she  bent  over  the  older  lady,  Mrs.  Lackland 
took  her  face  between  her  palms  and  kissed  her 
on  the  lips.  She  had  always  desired  a  daughter, 
and  none  had  been  given  her,  so  that  this  girl 
seemed  to  creep  into  a  place  in  her  heart  that  was 
ready  to  be  filled.  Then,  yielding  to  her  love  of 
orderliness,  she  pushed  back  one  or  two  rebellious 
curls  from  the  white  forehead. 

"Careless  little  girl,"  she  said  reprovingly. 
"Hare  you  been  out  without  a  hat?  Come,  come, 
let  us  have  breakfast.  It  is  getting  too  late  in  the 
year  for  these  early  morning  walks,  Pauline !" 

As  kindly  as  were  these  words,  they  seemed  to 
rouse  quick  resentment  in  the  girl.  She  threw 


28  A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER 

back  her  head  with  the  motion  that  a  young,  im- 
patient horse  gives  when  it  feels  the  rein.  Mrs. 
Lackland  poured  out  her  coffee  calmly  and  handed 
it  to  her,  without  pretending  to  see  this  movement. 

"You  will  waste  time  and  sympathy  to  no  pur- 
pose," she  continued.  "Believe  me,  my  dear  child, 
I  speak  from  experience.  People  do  not  appreciate 
self-sacrifice." 

The  girl  pressed  her  lips  together.  Bertram, 
engrossed  in  his  breakfast,  paused  an  instant. 

"They  must  be  educated  up  to  it,  mother  dear. 
Are  we  not  the  people?  Is  it  not  our  duty  to  ele- 
vate others  to  our  level  ?" 

"You  talk  like  a  book,"  said  his  mother  testily. 
"I  have  spent  forty  years  of  my  life  among  'the 
people.'  I  may  express  myself  with  less  elegance 
than  you,  but  I  think  I  know  them  better." 

An  old  servant  entered  then  with  letters,  which 
he  brought  to  Mrs.  Lackland  for  distribution. 
She  handed  one  to  Bertram,  who  broke  the  seal 
hurriedly. 

"Why,  it's  from  Gregory!"  he  cried.  Pauline 
received  no  letters.  Mrs.  Lackland  laid  hers  down 
beside  her  plate  and  continued  the  meal.  The 
gray-haired  servant  paused  at  her  side. 

"There  is  a  committee  of  three  men  from  the 


A  8TRANOE  ENCOUNTER  27 

East  Shore  factory,"  he  said.  "They  want  to  see 
you." 

Mrs.  Lackland  frowned. 

"To  see  me?    They  must  wait.    Tell  them  so." 

"Yes,  madam." 

"When  Mr.  Sands  finishes  his  breakfast  he  will 
attend  to  them." 

"Yes,  madam/' 

Pauline  had  listened  eagerly,  with  parted 
lips  and  flushed  cheeks.  She  bent  forward 
as  if  to  speak  when  the  old  servant  left,  but 
catching  Mr.  Sands'  gaze  fixed  intently  upon 
her,  she  refrained.  Mrs.  Lackland  turned  to  the 
secretary. 

"More  complaints,  I  suppose,"  she  said  grimly. 
"You  have  my  orders.  And — let  them  wait — 
don't  hurry." 

Mr.  Sands  nodded  quietly.  He  was  master  of  sit- 
uations like  these.  Meantime  Bertram,  reading 
rapidly,  gave  vent  to  exclamations  of  joy. 

"Gregory  is  coming  home,  mother !  He  has  left 
the  London  office  for  good.  He  has  already 
started." 

Mrs.  Lackland  looked  grave.  To  see  her  dearly 
loved  son  again — this  would  indeed  be  happiness. 
But  she  had  meant  him  to  master  every  detail  of 


28  A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER 

her  foreign  business  affairs — what  did  this  sudden 
whim  on  his  part  indicate? 

"Give  me  the  letter,"  she  said.  "I  hope  he  has 
left  a  suitable  person  in  charge/' 

Mr.  Sands  leaned  leisurely  back  in  his  chair, 
perusing  the  morning  paper.  The  sight  of  him 
angered  the  impetuous  young  girl,  who  knew  that 
anxious  men  in  the  hall  below  awaited  his  word. 
She  rose  and  went  to  the  sunny  window,  where 
Bertram  followed  her. 

"I  am  delighted  that  Gregory  is  coming,"  he 
said.  "You  will  find  in  him  a  foeman  worthy  of 
your  steel,  Miss  Pauline  Faulkner.  At  least,  you 
will  not  dare  to  say  he  lacks  earnestness." 

"I  shall  know  how  to  value  earnestness,"  she 
said  with  a  sarcastic  inflection. 

"Gregory  is  really  clever,  Pauline.  His  knowl- 
edge is  extensive." 

"His  knowledge  has  done  the  factories  and 
Lyndhurst  much  good,"  she  replied. 

Mrs.  Lackland  looked  up.  The  conversation 
had  gone  far  enough. 

"Why  do  you  defend  your  brother — or  praise 
him  ?"  she  asked  coldly.  "And  let  me  remind  you 
both  that  Lyndhurst  affairs  are  my  affairs." 

Mr.  Sands  rose  and  left  the  room  quietly. 


A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER  29 

Bertram  said  nothing.  Pauline's  sarcasm,  his 
mother's  reproof — both  of  which  he  felt  he  had  not 
deserved,  angered  him.  He  thrummed  upon  the 
window-pane.  Pauline  turned  her  face  away.  She 
was  not  thinking  of  this  big  boy  in  the  sulks,  but 
of  the  poor  men  waiting  downstairs  with  anxious 
hearts. 

"I  am  going  to  my  room,"  he  said  at  last.  "I 
shall  write  a  good  long  letter  to  my  friend  Pennis- 
ton.  At  least,  although  I  do  not  know  him,  there 
is  one  to  whom  I  can  open  my  heart."  He  spoke 
fretfully,  petulantly.  Pauline  caught  her  breath 
sharply. 

"To  whom — of  whom —  Penniston,  you  said? 
..."  Her  voice  shook  in  spite  of  her  efforts  at 
self-control.  He  knew  he  had  startled  her :  he  had 
meant  to  do  so. 

"Penniston,  the  great  leader  of  humanity — the 
noble  Penniston,  who  has  given  his  life  to  the  cause 
of  the  people,  the  editor  of  that  paper  which  you 
despise  so  utterly,  Miss  Faulkner." 

"You  write  to  him  f  her  tones  quivered. 

"Why  not?" 

Pauline  ignored  the  mockery  in  his  voice. 

"If  you  knew  him  .  .  .  you  would  not.  You 
and  he  have  nothing  in  common." 


30  A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER 

"He  is  a  republican  of  the  rankest  sort.  But 
that  is  his  attraction  to  a  man  like  me." 

"He  is  in  danger  of  imprisonment — at  any  hour, 
at  any  moment.  It  would  not  be  well  for  a  letter 
of  yours  to  be  found  in  his  possession.  This  morn- 
ing when  you  spoke — I  did  not  know  it  was  Pen- 
niston." 

"Pauline !  Were  not  you  one  of  his  followers  ?" 

She  crimsoned  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

"That  is  twice  to-day  you  have  reminded  me  of 
the  past!"  she  said  passionately.  "Of  which  you 
know  nothing,  nothing!  I  wish  I  had  never  set 
foot  across  your  threshold." 

Mrs.  Lackland  had  listened  without  interrup- 
tion. She  had  had  no  idea  that  the  conversation 
would  end  in  this  way. 

"My  child !  Pauline !  How  can  you  talk  so  ?  Do 
I  not  love  you  as  if  you  were  my  own?" 

The  girl  turned  on  her  stormily. 

"But  the  poor  waif  is  not  grateful  enough !  That 
is  it!  He  speaks  of  Penniston  .  .  .  and  you 
listen  ...  as  if,  as  if  .  .  ."  she  choked  then. 
"Well,  I  shall  go,  I  shall  go  quickly !"  Quivering 
from  head  to  foot,  she  left  the  room. 

Bertram  stood  dumbfounded.  His  mother 
glanced  at  his  dismayed  face. 


A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER  31 

"A  difficult  task,"  she  said.  "A  difficult  task 
to  tame  a  character  like  that !  But  we  must  be  very 
gentle  with  her — she  has  had  a  sad  life  of  it,  poor 
thing,  a  sad,  sad  life.  You  must  help  me  to  make 
her  happy  and  contented,  Bertram.  As  for  Pen- 
niston,"  she  frowned.  "I  do  not  want  his  name 
mentioned  again.  You  are  a  foolish,  thoughtless 
boy.  Do  you  not  know  that  he  is  Pauline's  worst 
enemy  ?" 

"Pauline's  worst  enemy!"  The  young  man 
echoed  the  words.  "You  have  told  me  that  she 
left  London  to  avoid  him " 

"Then  I  did  not  tell  you  enough,"  she  said. 
"How  is  it  that  you  correspond  with  him?" 

"Why — Stanhope  recommended  this  paper," 
he  pulled  it  out  of  his  pocket.  "I  liked  the 
sentiments  of  one  of  the  articles  and  wrote  to 
the  editor,  Penniston  answered.  He  is  brilliant — 
witty." 

"So  are  all  his  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Lackland  se- 
verely. "You  will  discontinue  the  paper  at  once, 
Bertram.  More  is  involved  in  this  than  you  imag- 
ine— Pauline's  whole  future  peace  of  mind,  for  one 
thing.  And  you  will  not  write  to  him  again. 
Promise  me,  my  boy." 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said  slowly.     "You  told  me 


32  A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER 

Pauline's  story,  but  you  didn't  tell  me  sufficient. 
Half-confidences  are  worse  than  none/' 

"Sometimes,"  she  said  briefly,  tartly.  "I  did 
not  feel  that  Pauline's  story  was  your  affair.  At 
least,  let  this  matter  be  ended  here." 

Feeling  a  little  humiliated,  the  young  man  left 
the  room. 


CHAPTER  III 

LYNDHURST  AFFAIRS 

MRS.  LACKLAND  proceeded  to  open  her  letters 
while  the  servant  cleared  the  breakfast-table. 
Presently  Mr.  Sands  entered,  a  little  flushed  and 
plainly  upset. 

"They  will  not  talk  to  me,  Mrs.  Lackland.  They 
insist  on  seeing  you." 

"Who  are  they?" 

"Williamson,  of  the  coloring  floor,  and  three 
others — I  don't  know  their  names,  but  Williamson 
is  the  leader.  He  said  they  will  wait  all  day  and 
come  again  to-morrow,  and  every  day  this  week, 
until  they  can  see  you  personally." 

"Such  nonsense,  such  nonsense!"  she  said  ir- 
ritably. "I  will  not  see  them.  Tell  them  so  posi- 
tively. They  know  my  rule  about  complaints." 

Mr.  Sands  withdrew.  Five  minutes  later  he  was 
back. 

"Shall  I  call  up  some  of  the  servants  to  throw 
them  out?"  he  began  abruptly.  "They  are  in  the 
office,  from  which  they  refuse  to  stir,  and  you  have 
an  appointment  with  Martin's  man  in  fifteen  min- 
utes." 


34  L7NDHUR8T  AFFAIRS 

Mrs.  Lackland  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Here  are  the  letters,"  she  said  hastily.  "I'll 
talk  them  over  with  you  later.  Give  orders  that 
if  any  caller  comes  before  I  am  rid  of  these  men 
he  must  wait  in  the  library.  But  hurry — I  want 
a  record  of  this  interview." 

A  minute  later  she  swept  into  her  office  with 
a  severe  face,  a  forbidding  manner.  There  were 
four  men  waiting,  who  rose  as  one  at  her  entrance. 
Williamson,  a  young  fellow  of  about  twenty-eight, 
stepped  forward. 

"You  are  Mr.  Williamson?" 

<rYes,  madam.  We  are  from  the  East  Shore. 
yfG » 

"You  have  a  complaint  to  make?  Have  you 
seen  Mr.  Doring?" 

"No,  madam." 

"Well.    Have  you  your  complaint  in  writing?" 

"No — we  find  that  it  does  no  good  to  complain 
in  writing.  The  complaints  are  shelved  before 
they  reach  you." 

Mrs.  Lackland  flushed. 

"That  is  a  bold  thing  to  say,  Mr.  Williamson. 
Mr.  Doring  has  my  full  confidence.  He  produces 
results.  I  don't  inquire  into  his  methods." 

"So  we  understand,  madam.     Our  department 


L7XDHUR8T  AFFAIRS  35 

is  not  the  only  one  that  has  had  to  suffer  from 
them.  No  one  can  live  under  Mr.  Boring's  meth- 
ods. Unjust  fines,  petty  fault-finding,  unequaled 
adjustment  of  the  work — I  wish  you  would  let  us 
explain  these  matters  in  detail " 

"I  am  very  busy — extremely  busy,"  she  said 
coldly.  "Put  your  complaints  in  writing  and  I 
promise  to  give  them  my  personal  attention.  Let 
that  suffice  for  the  present." 

Williamson  stood  his  ground  doggedly. 

"You  have  some  good  workmen  in  your  employ, 
Mrs.  Lackland,  and  it  is  not  easy  to  get  good  work- 
men nowadays " 

"I  can  always  get  them,"  she  interrupted.  "Do 
not  let  my  affairs  annoy  you.  If  you  choose,  send 
in  your  complaints.  If  not — "  she  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  "Good  morning,  gentlemen." 

The  men  exchanged  glances — hopeless  glances; 
then  they  turned  toward  the  door,  and  filed  out 
silently.  As  they  went  down  the  stairs  Pauline 
Faulkner  met  them  on  the  lower  landing.  She 
gave  her  hand  impulsively  to  Williamson. 

"I  was  afraid  so,"  she  said.  "I  can  see  by  your 
faces  that  there  have  been  no  results.  Do  not  give 
up  hope.  I  hear  that  the  elder  son  is  coming  home 
— Mr.  Gregory.  He  will  surely  take  an  interest  in 


36  LYNDHURST  AFFAIRS 

the  affairs  of  the  firm  .  .  .  Good  by.  Better 
luck  shortly." 

Mr.  Sands,  coming  down  the  stairs,  heard  the 
parting  salutation.  He  gave  the  young  girl  a 
searching  look  as  she  passed  him — a  look  she  did 
not  see.  Her  face  was  pale,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
vacancy. 

No  caller  more  opposite  to  the  ones  whom  Mrs. 
Lackland  had  just  dismissed  could  be  imagined 
than  the  one  she  greeted  now  smilingly.  Al- 
though well  into  the  forties,  he  was  splendidly 
preserved  and  dressed  with  elegance.  He  did  not 
seem  in  any  sense  of  the  word  a  business  man — 
rather  one  given  over  much  to  the  follies  of  society. 

"Ah,  madam !"  he  murmured,  with  a  pro- 
nounced foreign  accent.  "It  is  a  year  since  I  have 
seen  you — and  your  charm  has  increased  a  hun- 
dredfold." 

"Monsieur  Bodieff  flatters,"  said  Mrs.  Lackland 
quietly.  "A  year  is  much  at  my  time  of  life.  How 
prosper  affairs  in  your  country?" 

"They  go  well,  madam.  We  have  a  new  amal- 
gamation to  propose,  on  terms  slightly  different, 
but  still,  we  hope,  entirely  satisfactory.  If  not,  I 
am  authorized  to  make  them  so — for  madam's 
sake!" 


LYXDHURST  AFFAIRS  37 

"We  shall  see,"  said  Mrs.  Lackland  quietly.  "I 
know  Monsieur  Bodieff  by  reputation,  and  his  firm 
as  well.  I  feel  safe  in  their  hands." 

"A  thousand  thanks,  madam  !" 

"It  is  a  while  since  I  have  seen  your  Mr.  Mar- 
tin. Mr.  Gerald  Martin  is  now  senior  member ! 
Well.  That  is  it.  We  old  people  step  aside  to 
make  way  for  the  younger  folks.  That  is  the  law." 

"The  law.  True.  It  is  rumored,"  he  pursued, 
"that  some  time  since  Madam  Lackland  has  made 
a  new  and  charming  addition  to  her  family  circle 
— a  young  lady." 

"My  niece,  yes,  who  has  been  educated  abroad," 
said  Mrs.  Lackland  serenely.  "I  did  not  know  my 
domestic  affairs  were  so  well  known,  Monsieur 
Bodieff." 

"It  is  said  she  is  the  daughter  of  one  Faulkner — 
madam's  connection  with  his  family  would  hurt 
her— yes?  With  us ?' 

"That  will  do,"  said  Mrs.  Lackland  hastily. 
"Say  no  more,  please.  My  niece  is  with  me,  to 
stay  with  me.  She  will  probably  remain  in  Amer- 
ica and  settle  here.  At  least  that  is  my  hope  and 
my  purpose." 

"Madam  has  but  to  wish  to  achieve,"  was  the 
gallant  response.  "It  is  well.  She  is  out  of  mis- 


38  LYXDHUR8T  AFFAIRS 

chief  here.  Now,  if  madam  will  give  me  her  at- 
tention for  a  little  while  ..." 

They  talked  on  animatedly.  Lunch  was  served 
in  the  office,  and  it  was  two  o'clock  before  Mon- 
sieur Bodieft  had  concluded  his  business  arrange- 
ments. As  he  made  his  final  adieus  Madam  Lack- 
land detained  him. 

"On  your  side  of  the  water  affairs  are  more 
complicated  than  they  are  here,"  she  said  quietly. 
"Lyndhurst  is  very  far  removed  from  London — 
tell  your  agents  that.  Also  that  a  good  American 
citizen  has  undertaken  the  task  of  making  a  good 
American  citizen  out  of  Pauline  Faulkner.  She  is 
young,  Bodieff — you  know  how  young.  Speak  of 
her  as  if  she  were  your  daughter." 

"I  will,  madam,  I  will.  It  was  but  a  precau- 
tionary remark  on  my  part.  There  is  so  much 
that  could  arise  from  her  presence  here " 

"Nothing  to  hurt  any  one,  Bodieff — rest  assured 
of  that." 

"I  do.  I  know,  madam.  Farewell."  He  lifted 
her  hand  to  his  lips.  Hardly  had  the  door  closed 
upon  him,  Mr.  Sands  escorting  him,  than  Pauline 
appeared  from  the  room  opposite. 

"Aunt,  my  dear  Aunt  Laura !"  she  said,  throw- 
ing herself  into  the  older  lady's  arms.  "Forgive 


LYNDHUR8T  AFFAIRS  39 

me,  forgive  me !  I  am  mean,  ungrateful,  undeserv- 
ing!" 

Her  whole  body  trembled — there  was  as  much 
storm  and  passion  about  her  repentance  as  there 
had  been  in  her  rebellious  outburst  earlier  in  the 
morning. 

"I  have  forgiven  you,  my  child,"  said  Mrs. 
Lackland,  stroking  the  golden  hair  softly.  "I 
know  that  we  can  not  judge  you  by  our  conven- 
tional standards — at  least  not  yet,  Pauline." 

"Oh,  I  can't  stay  here!"  said  the  girl.  "Who 
knows  what  misfortune  I  may  bring  upon 
you?" 

"You  will  bring  no  misfortune  upon  me,"  said 
Mrs.  Lackland  steadily,  "neither  on  me  nor  mine. 
So  do  not  fear  that.  But  one  thing  I  must  ask — 
one  promise  you  must  give  me." 

"Yes,  aunt?" 

"You  must  not  send  letter  nor  message  to  that 
person  of  whom  Bertram  spoke — nor  receive  any 
from  him." 

"Yes,  aunt." 

"Nor  from  any  of  his  friends  or  agents — have  I 
your  promise,  Pauline?" 

Standing  before  her  aunt  quietly,  the  girl  be- 
came suddenly  thoughtful.  Then  she  raised  her 


4%  LYXDHUR8T  AFFAIRS 

eyes  to  meet  with  frankness  the  grave  glance  bent 
upon  her. 

"But  Bertram.    He  said " 

"Bertram  says  more  than  he  means  at  times. 
Do  not  think  about  Bertram  now.  He  shall  not 
communicate  with  him." 

"Then  you  have  my  promise,  Aunt  Laura, 
gladly  given." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear.  I  have  had  enough  of 
business  for  one  day — I  am  tired  of  it.  Come  with 
me  on  the  terrace — I  want  to  tell  you  what  I  have 
planned  for  you  this  winter.  We  are  going  to  the 
city  and  you  can  satisfy  your  love  for  the  opera  to 
your  heart's  content.  And  I  am  having  our  house 
in  town  entirely  renovated,  so  that  we  oan  enter- 
tain as  lavishly  as  you  wish." 

"Aunt  Laura !    You  simply  make  me  feel " 

"Pauline,  you  have  had  an  unhappy  life — a  very 
unhappy  life.  You  are  too  young  to  know  the 
hardships  of  an  older  age,  therefore  you  must  put 
the  past  behind  you.  Far  behind  you,  my  Paul- 
ine." 

"I  can't,"  she  said,  between  her  teeth.  They 
paused  a»  instant  while  Mrs.  Lackland  wound  a 
light  shawl  about  her  and  threw  another  over  the 
girl's  shoulders. 


LYNDBURST  AFFAIRS  U 

"You  will  in  time,  my  dear  child,"  said  the 
older  woman  serenely.  "You  are  only  twenty. 
Twenty !  You  should  be  in  short  dresses  yet,  in- 
stead of  bothering  your  pretty  head " 

"Aunt  Laura,"  said  the  girl  hurriedly,  "the 
other  life  is  in  my  blood.  I  do  not  seek  problems, 
they  come  to  seek  me.  If  you  would  listen  now — 
if  you  would  only  let  me  tell  you  about  the  men 
who  were  here  to-day " 

"Pauline,  my  child,  I  have  had  enough  of  busi- 
ness." 

"But,  Aunt  Laura — just  let  me  show  you " 

"I  will  not  listen.  I  am  going  to  hear  what  they 
have  to  say,  yes — but  not  from  you.  Forgive  me 
if  this  seems  harsh.  It  is  my  rule — even  for  you 
I  will  not  break  it.  Besides,  I  entirely  disapprove 
of  your  meddling  in  factory  affairs.  You  know 
why  I  am  tolerant  of  it — merely  tolerant.  No  one 
else  does.  But  I  assure  you  that  if  you  were  to 
talk  until  doomsday  you  could  say  nothing  that 
would  persuade  me.  No  man  is  so  deaf  as  the  man 
who  will  not  hear,  my  Pauline,  and  the  sooner  you 
are  persuaded  that  I  will  not  listen,  the  happier 
you  will  make  me." 


CHAPTER  IV 

RETROSPECTION 

BERTRAM  drove  to  the  station  for  Mr.  Master- 
son,  his  mother's  chief  adviser,  who  was  to  dine 
with  them  that  evening  in  order  to  attend  to  some 
legal  business  the  following  day.  At  Mrs.  Lack- 
land's  request  he  had  brought  his  nephew  with 
him,  quite  a  young  man,  but  of  good  appearance, 
and  not  at  all  averse  to  paying  homage  to  a  charm- 
ing and  lovely  girl.  Perhaps  this  had  been  in  Mrs. 
Lackland's  mind  when  she  extended  the  invitation. 
At  any  rate,  she  made  him  take  Pauline  in  to  din- 
ner, which  was  always  an  enjoyable  affair  at  Lynd- 
hurst.  During  the  course  of  the  meal  the  young 
man  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  the  girl,  and 
in  spite  of  the  depression  which  weighed  upon  her 
after  the  conversation  with  her  aunt  that  after- 
noon, she  could  not  but  be  amused  and  enter- 
tained. It  was  pleasant  to  see  her  face  light  up. 
She  laughed  and  chattered  in  a  way  that  Bertram 
found  delightful,  because  totally  unexpected.  Mr. 
Masterson  looked  on  with  a  serene  countenance. 
He  was  a  kind  old  man,  upright  and  just. 

"She  is  charming,  charming,"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
42 


RETROSPECTION  43 

Lackland.  "You  have  done  well  to  bring  her 
here." 

They  were  taking  coffee  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  Pauline's  laugh  reached  their  ears — a  low, 
sweet  laugh,  evoked  by  some  absurdity  of  young 
Leonard  Masterson's. 

"I  have  found  her  so/'  said  Mrs.  Lackland,  nod- 
ding. "Much  less  foreign  than  her  early  educa- 
tion prepared  me  for.  One  trace  of  the  old  evil 
will  not  be  eradicated,  however,  and  I  am  anxious 
to  remove  her  to  scenes  more  fitting  to  her  youth 
and  gayety.  She  has  lived  the  life  of  the  old  too 
long.  Other  people's  affairs  annoy  her,  poor  child. 
Even  mine  I"  with  a  smile  that  brought  an  amused 
light  into  Mr.  Masterson's  eyes.  "Mine  most  of 
all,  for  she  has  no  other  things  here  to  bother  her 
— actually  pleading  the  cause  of  the  men  .  .  . 
It  is  absurd — a  child  like  that!" 

"You  interest  me,"  said  Mr.  Masterson.  "Does 
she  go  about  much  in  the  factories  ?" 

"Occasionally.  I  have  forbidden  it  lately  to  a 
great  extent,  but  of  course  not  altogether.  That 
would  not  be  policy." 

"Better  policy,  dear  madam,  than  partial  per- 
mission. It  can  do  no  good." 

"She  must  realize  that  herself.    I  think  she  does 


44  RETROSPECTION 

now.  Besides  we  shall  be  leaving  so  very  soon  it 
can't  really  matter." 

She  paused  to  glance  at  the  servant  coming  to- 
ward her  with  a  card. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Stanhope!  Show  Mr.  Stanhope  in. 
Pauline,  my  dear " 

The  young  girl  rose  instantly  and  moved  to  her 
aunt's  side.  Judge  Masterson  twisted  his  under- 
lip  curiously. 

"Stanhope,  the  impeccable !  Why  not  give  me  a 
few  moments'  grace,  dear  lady,  that  I  may  make 
good  my  escape?  Or  is  it  really  necessary  that  I 
become  a  martyr " 

Mrs.  Lackland  greeted  the  tall  man  who  entered 
now  with  frank  courtesy.  He  was  acquainted  with 
Bertram  and  Judge  Masterson,  but  the  younger 
Mr.  Masterson  was  a  stranger  to  him.  Pauline 
Faulkner,  standing  beside  her  aunt,  a  slim, 
straight,  girlish  figure,  encountered  the  full  glance 
of  a  pair  of  peculiar  blue  eyes  before  she  bent  her 
golden  head,  acknowledging  the  introduction.  An 
odd  sensation  swept  over  her — one  of  fear,  perhaps, 
though  she  could  not  imagine  why  she  should  be 
afraid.  Afterward  she  looked  at  the  man  more  ob- 
servingly.  His  whole  personality  was  engaging. 
His  features  irregular,  but  strongly  cut,  his  hair, 


RETROSPECTION  45 

•eyebrows,  and  short  Vandyke  beard,  a  very  dark 
brown.  A  man  used  to  the  best  of  life,  thought 
Pauline — an  aristocrat — he  looked  the  part. 

She  knew  nothing  of  Julian  Stanhope's  stand- 
ing in  society  or  history,  yet  she  felt  that  if  she 
knew  more  she  would  be  more  antagonized.  To 
her,  at  least,  he  would  not  improve  on  acquain- 
tance. So  she  dismissed  him  from  her  thoughts, 
and  turned  again  to  the  light  badinage  with  which 
Leonard  Masterson  and  Bertram  Lackland  be- 
guiled the  time.  Judge  Masterson  leaned  back  in 
his  comfortable  chair,  with  such  an  expression  of 
resignation  on  his  face  that  Pauline,  glancing  at 
him  casually,  felt  the  corners  of  her  mouth  twitch. 
She  was  quick  at  reading  faces  and  signs. 

But  try  as  she  might  to  concentrate  her  atten- 
tion on  others  gradually  all  were  reduced  to  si- 
lence. Mr.  Stanhope  had  come  with  a  message 
from  Mrs.  Sigogne,  one  of  Mrs.  Lackland's  friends. 
She  had  asked  him  to  inform  Mrs.  Lackland  that 
she  had  just  returned  from  the  Springs — that  she 
intended  to  call  in  the  morning,  and  would  be 
much  pleased  if  she  would  be  at  home  to  receive 
her.  She  would  have  written  this,  but  her  return 
was  unexpected,  and  she  knew  well  what  a  busy 
woman  her  friend  was.  For  some  reason  or  other 


46  RETROSPECTION 

this  message  seemed  to  give  Mrs.  Lackland  pleas- 
ure. 

"I  would  surely  have  been  out,"  she  said.  "I 
am  indebted  to  you,  Mr.  Stanhope." 

"Oh,  no,"  he  answered.     He  turned  his  head 
slightly,  so  that  his  glance  might  fall  occasionally 
on  Pauline.     "Your  niece  will  get  on  splendidly 
with  little  Miss  Helen.    She  is  quite  a  young  lady 
now.     Mrs.  Sigogne  says  you  will  be  astonished 
what  a  difference  two  years  have  made  in  her.     I 
am  no  judge,  as  my  acquaintance  is  of  more  recent 
date.    After  all,  there  is  nothing  to  equal  the  fin- 
ishing touches  of  the  good  nuns.    She  was  such  a 
boisterous  little  tomboy,  her  mother  asserts." 
"A  gay,  happy  little  tomboy,  Mr.  Stanhope." 
"I  am  sure  she  is  that  yet — with  a  difference." 
"And  your  own  work — how  has  it  prospered  ?" 
"I  am  beginning  to  learn  a  little  about  it,"  he 
said  modestly.     "The  study  of  social  conditions, 
from  being  merely  elective,  has  become  my  life- 
hobby.    Perhaps  in  the  end  I  shall  do  something 
worth  while." 

Mrs.  Lackland  changed  the  subject  abruptly — 
she  did  not  want  Pauline  to  hear  any  more.  The 
conversation  took  a  lighter  vein,  and  included  the 
three  younger  people  about  the  small  table.  But 


RETROSPECTION  47 

Pauline  was  silent.  Julian  Stanhope  was  witty, 
sarcastic,  humorous  in  turn,  and  although  he  did 
not  speak  to  her  directly  she  felt  that  he  was  really 
talking  at  her.  She  resented  this,  as  she  uncon- 
sciously resented  his  presence. 

When  a  man  like  Julian  Stanhope  has  an  object 
in  view  he  generally  obtains  it.  The  engaging  of  a 
charming  young  woman  in  conversation  was  surely 
one  of  the  minor  details  which  a  fairly  determined 
man  could  accomplish.  By  degrees,  Leonard  Mas- 
terson  was  drawn  away  and  then  Bertram.  Pres- 
ently— she  could  not  have  told  how — Pauline 
Faulkner  was  talking  to  Julian  Stanhope  alone. 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  London,  Miss  Faulk- 
ner?" he  asked  idly. 

"Yes,  I  have  been  in  London.  I  traveled 
through  all  the  larger  European  cities." 

"Ah!  Do  you  know  your  face  is  strangely  fa- 
miliar. I  have  seen  you  somewhere,  I  am  positive. 
It  must  have  been  in  London — as  that  city  is  fresh- 
est in  my  memory." 

"I  hardly  think  so,"  she  answered  coldly.  "I 
went  nowhere  of  any  consequence  while  there." 

"Nevertheless " 

'1  beg  your  pardon."  She  looked  at  him  with 
a  calm  face.  "I  do  not  care  for  London — we  will 


48  RETROSPECTION 

not  discuss  it.  My  aunt  wishes  to  make  a  good 
American  citizen  of  me.  She  will  succeed,  I  am 
sure,  especially  since  America  is  my  birthplace. 
London  will  see  very  little  of  me  in  the  future." 

"Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well,"  he  answered  quietly. 

She  did  not  reply  to  this.  Her  large  eyes  met 
his  in  a  glance  of  anger  and  disdain.  They  said 
as  plainly  as  if  she  had  spoken,  "You  are  imper- 
tinent!" He  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly. 
Then  Judge  Masterson,  happily,  came  toward 
them,  and  all  further  conversation  between  the 

two  was  at  an  end. 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  young  girl  wooed  sleep  in  vain  that  night. 
The  beads  of  the  rosary  slipped  idly  through  her 
fingers,  for  she  could  not  concentrate  her  attention 
upon  her  prayers.  That  man!  Who  was  he? 
Where  had  he  come  from  ?  What  had  he  meant  by 
his  strange  remarks  ?  A  feeling  of  terror,  of  fear, 
possessed  her.  How  much  did  he  know  of  the  past 
she  would  fain  blot  from  her  memory? 

She  rose  and  sat  at  the  window.  It  was  a  bril- 
liant night  outdoors — the  sparkling  rays  of  the 
moon  illumined  the  avenue  of  trees,  the  bushes,  the 
quiet  lawns.  Nature  seemed  asleep,  wrapped  in  a 
peace  which  man,  the  restless,  could  never  know. 


RETROSPECTION  49 

"Life!"  whispered  the  girl,  dropping  her  fair 
head  in  her  hands.  "What  a  riddle,  what  a  mys- 
tery! 'Tis  well  we  know  that  God  holds  the  key 
to  it/' 

All  the  tragic  events  of  her  own  short  existence 
rose  before  her.  So  few  her  years,  and  yet  how 
much  of  misery  they  had  held!  Never  a  settled 
home,  never  the  quiet  content  of  life  within  four 
walls,  but  the  rush  of  the  hunted,  hither,  thither, 
everywhere — Berlin,  Moscow,  London,  Vienna, 
Paris,  and  always  back  to  London.  Then,  her 
mother's  death,  the  empty  desolateness  of  life  with- 
out her,  the  father's  complete  indifference — his 
unceasing  annoyance  over  the  presence  of  his  two 
children,  daughters !  They  were  facts,  obstacles,  of 
which  he  must  dispose!  He  thought  of  sending 
them  to  the  nuns  to  be  educated  and  brought  up 
in  their  mother's  Faith,  once  his,  long  since  for- 
gotten. But  his  friends — what  would  his  friends 
say  to  that  ?  Those  friends  of  his  who  despised  all 
forms  of  government  and  laughed  at  all  restraint  ? 

So  they  went  to  a  godless  college  under  foreign, 
godless  teachers,  these  two  girls,  the  elder,  Muriel, 
and  the  younger,  Pauline.  They  attended  lec- 
tures at  which  Penniston  spoke — Penniston,  the 
most  godless  of  them  all,  and  yet  one  whose  words 


50  RETROSPECTION 

were  honeyed,  whose  arguments  were  unanswer- 
able, whose  magnetism  won  all  hearts.  He  lent 
Pauline  books,  he  spent  hours  discussing  questions 
with  her,  and  the  pulses  of  youth  beat  high  within 
her  to  do  good  to  her  fellow-man.  In  the  new  laws 
which  he  would  promulgate  she  saw  the  comfort 
and  blessing  of  all  humanity.  "The  future,  the 
future  that  is  ours  I"  cried  her  teacher.  "We  shall 
accomplish  the  freedom  of  the  generations." 

Sympathy  for  the  suffering  was  natural  to 
Pauline.  Her  whole  soul  thirsted  for  sacrifice. 
She  prayed  the  sweet  prayers  her  mother  had 
taught  her,  but  she  did  not  practise  her  faith. 

"Nothing  grows  in  the  garden  of  humanity  that 
is  not  watered  by  tears,"  said  Penniston,  his  eyes 
aflame.  "Nothing  can  be  accomplished  without 
sacrifice,  sacrifice,  sacrifice!  Yours,  mine,  every 
one's !" 

"Mine !"  she  answered.    "What  is  my  sacrifice  ?" 

"Jt  will  come,"  he  told  her. 

Muriel's  came  first.  A  marriage  was  arranged 
between  her  and  a  wealthy  man,  a  banker  of  influ- 
ence, much  older  than  she.  The  girl  was  not  con- 
sulted. Her  father  and  Penniston  managed  it  all. 
In  vain  she  pleaded,  and  Pauline  pleaded  for  her ; 
in  vain  she  asserted  her  love  for  another,  her  dis- 


RETROSPECTION  51 

like  of  Cyril  Morton,  the  man  they  had  selected. 
She  was  but  an  atom  in  the  world,  and  she  must 
accomplish  her  destiny,  she  must  help  the  cause. 
It  was  not  for  her  to  say  what  her  likes  or  dislikes 
might  be — it  was  necessary  that  the  marriage  take 
place.  And  Muriel  obeyed — she  dared  not  disobey. 

And  when  the  white-faced  victim  had  departed 
with  the  man  for  whom  she  had  neither  respect 
nor  affection,  Pauline  went  to  Penniston  tempestu- 
ously. 

"My  father  and  you  tell  me  there  is  work  for 
me  to  do,"  she  said.  "I  want  my  work.  I  am  no 
longer  a  child/' 

"We  shall  soon  make  our  plans  known  to  you." 

"You  shall  never  sacrifice  me  as  you  did 
Muriel/'  she  said.  "Never — neither  my  father — 
nor  you — nor  the  cause !" 

He  did  not  appear  to  listen.  Instead  his  eyes 
sought  the  window  dreamily. 

"Unrighteousness,  oppression,  iniquity,  misery! 
These  are  the  things  we  fight  to-day,  Pauline.  Is 
it  right  to  let  one  human  life  stand  in  the  path  of 
our  noble  purpose  ?  To  let  one  human  being's  hap- 
piness interfere  with  the  good  of  all  ?" 

And  again  he  pkmged  into  his  plans  for  the 
future,  and  she  felt  her  heart  thrilling  once  more 


52  RETROSPECTION 

as  she  listened.  How  grand,  how  glorious,  it 
would  be — and  how  fortunate  that  she  might  have 
a  part  in  it!  A  few  days  later  he  told  her  how 
the  apostles  of  the  new  order  were  abroad,  in  field, 
factory,  and  workroom,  spreading  the  gospel  of 
freedom.  Pauline  was  roused  to  enthusiasm — but 
no  work  was  given  her. 

"Your  hands  are  too  little,"  he  would  say,  in- 
dulgently. The  vulgarity,  the  rudeness,  the  bru- 
tality of  her  brothers  and  sisters  in  the  new  order 
shocked  the  refined  girl.  Quarrels  ensued  which 
were  painful.  Penniston  was  disgusted  and  in- 
furiated. 

"Miserable  creatures  I"  he  cried.  "They  are  but 
cattle  fit  for  slaughter  I" 

Pauline  sat  dumb  under  these  words.  "Misera- 
ble creatures!  Cattle  for  slaughter!"  Where  was 
the  high  resolve,  the  noble  self-sacrifice,  prepared 
to  endanger  all  that  common  humanity  might  rise 
above  its  common  self?  In  a  fever  of  unrest 
Pauline  left  him  and  went  away  to  fight  the  doubts 
assailing  her.  One  resource  was  opened  to  her — 
one  friend  who  had  not  failed — the  priest  who  had 
attended  her  mother  in  her  last  illness.  Secretly 
and  at  night  Pauline  went  to  him,  and  laid  her 
story  before  him.  He  was  shocked,  horrified.  The 


RETROSPECTION  53 

girl's  youth,  her  attractiveness,  the  very  mentality 
which  showed  itself  with  such  prominence,  proved 
to  this  experienced  man  of  the  world  what  dan- 
gers lay  before  her.  She  stood  on  the  brink  of  a 
precipice — the  slightest  wavering  would  mean  her 
destruction. 

"Go  to  your  father/'  he  said,  "and  ask  him  to 
send  you  away.  You  must  leave  the  city." 

She  went  obediently.  But  her  father  had  dis- 
appeared— his  flight  had  been  hasty,  unexpected. 
There  was  no  word  of  farewell.  She  was  trying  to 
grasp  this  new  phase  of  the  situation  when  Pennis- 
ton  came  in. 

"Your  father  has  gone,  Pauline,"  he  said. 

His  white  face,  stern  with  passion,  his  flashing 
eyes,  his  stern-set  brows,  betrayed  his  anger.  She 
looked  at  him  helplessly. 

"Where?"  she  asked. 

"Wherever  his  blood-money  will  carry  him.  He 
has  betrayed  his  friends." 

Shame  filled  her — shame  unspeakable. 

"My  father!"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,  your  father.  Pauline,  his  future  fate  is 
in  your  hands — one  word,  and  I  put  those  upon 
his  track  who  will  never  give  up  the  chase  until 
he  is  disposed  of." 


54  RETROSPECTION 

"Oh,  let  me  go,  too,"  she  said.  "I  am  tired  of  it 
all — life  here  is  unbearable.  I  will  go  away — far 
away — anywhere,  so  that  I  may  never  meet  one 
who  Knew  me  in  this  life." 

He  clasped  her  hands  in  his. 

"You  have  gone  too  far  to  draw  back,"  he  said. 
"Pauline,  are  you  blind  ?  WEy  have  I  kept  all  dis- 
agreeable things  from  you?  Why  have  I  kept  you 
out  of  danger?  Why,  for  your  sake,  will  I  try  to 
shield  the  man  who  has  betrayed  me?" 

Had  a  thunderbolt  fallen  at  her  feet  she  could 
not  have  been  more  astonished.  She  looked  at 
him,  stunned. 

"You  will  marry  me,  Pauline.  As  the  wife  of 
Penniston  no  one  can  hurt  or  harm  you.  As 
Faulkner's  daughter  you  are  in  danger  always." 

She  tore  her  hands  away  and  left  him. 

And  now,  in  quiet  Lyndhurst,  far  removed  from 
those  turbulent  scenes  and  sounds,  she  sat  review- 
ing her  life  from  that  day  on — all  that  had  pre- 
ceded, and  all  that  followed  it. 

She  had  very  little  money — she  must  seek  em- 
ployment, but  where?  And  then,  as  it  chanced, 
she  received  a  note  from  Mrs.  Lackland.  Her 
father  had  not  entirely  forgotten  her.  Mrs.  Lack- 
land was  no  relative,  though  she  gave  her  the  title 


RETROSPECTION  65 

of  one.  The  relationship  was  very  distant.  With 
a  warmth  of  heart  unusual  in  her,  Laura  Lackland 
took  the  poor  girl  under  her  protection,  and  like 
a  wounded  bird  the  girl  clung  to  her.  They  left 
London  immediately.  Arrived  at  Lyndhurst, 
Pauline  spent  weeks  in  a  state  of  mind  that  bor- 
dered so  close  on  melancholia  that  Mrs.  Lackland 
was  at  her  wits'  end  to  arouse  her.  Bertram  gave 
himself  up  to  the  task.  She  had  but  to  express  a 
wish  to  have  it  gratified,  and  a  warm  affection 
grew  between  the  two. 

"Our  paths  in  life  must  diverge,  Bertram,"  she 
said  to  him  once  with  a  sorrowful  smile.  "Give 
me  your  friendship,  if  you  will,  for  a  little  while 
— but  I  am  not  of  those  who  can  ever  know  a  quiet 
happiness." 

And  now  what  shadow  of  the  past  had  thrown 
itself  across  her  future?  Why  should  she  fear  or 
dread  the  unknown?  Why  should  Julian  Stan- 
hope's steely-blue  eyes  seem  to  threaten  untold 
dangers  ? 


CHAPTER  V 

A  MESSAGE  UNDELIVERED 

EARLY  next  morning,  right  after  breakfast, 
Bertram  rode  over  to  The  Pines,  with  a  message 
from  his  mother  for  Mrs.  Sigogne.  Mrs.  Lack- 
land would  be  at  liberty  all  afternoon,  and  would 
be  delighted  to  see  her  then.  Mrs.  Sigogne  was  a 
young  widow — ten  years  older  than  her  step- 
daughter, Helen,  who  was  just  entering  her  seven- 
teenth year.  Paul  Sigogne  had  died  two  years 
previous,  leaving  his  wife  the  sole  guardian  of  the 
child  of  his  first  marriage,  and  dividing  his  large 
property  equally  between  them.  Mrs.  Lackland 
had  often  been  consulted  by  Paul  Sigogne  in  the 
management  of  his  business  affairs,  and  his  widow 
continued  to  do  the  same.  It  was  at  Mrs.  Lack- 
land's  suggestion  that  Helen  Sigogne,  a  long- 
limbed,  awkward  girl  of  fifteen,  had  been  ient  to 
the  convent  really  to  be  taught  restraint,  for  she 
was  wilful  and  undisciplined. 

The  Pines  was  a  splendid  old  mansion  which 
once  belonged  to  a  very  wealthy  family,  who  were 
compelled,  through  reverses,  to  dispose  of  the 

stately  pile.    Paul  Sigogne  bought  it  for  a  princely 
56 


A.  MESSAGE  UNDELIVERED  57 

sum  indeed,  but  it  was  worth  it,  for  it  was  one  of 
the  showplaces  of  the  country.  A  stately  lawn 
stretched  from  its  massive  terrace  to  the  artificial 
lake  in  the  center  of  the  grounds,  and  beautiful 
flower-beds  could  be  seen  through  the  long  drive- 
way that  led  up  to  the  house — a  driveway  lined  on 
either  side  by  the  tall  old  pines  that  gave  the  house 
its  name. 

Bertram  admired  the  house  and  its  surroundings 
greatly.  He  was  particularly  impressed  now  by 
the  profusion  of  gay  blossoms  that  nodded  a  wel- 
come from  every  conceivable  corner — so  gay  and 
brilliant  that  they  mocked  the  changing  foliage 
of  the  trees.  Autumn's  gold  and  bronze  and  yel- 
low seemed  out  of  place  here,  where  summer 
reigned.  Some  such  thought  as  this  came  to  Ber- 
tram as  he  rode,  paying  little  attention  to  the  di- 
rection of  his  horse.  He  was  a  sure  rider.  But 
suddenly  the  sound  of  sparkling  laughter  fell  upon 
his  ears,  and  at  the  same  time  a  huge  Great  Dane 
appeared  from  behind  the  nearest  thicket,  and  set 
up  a  barking  that  disturbed  his  sensitive  animal. 
Soliman  plunged  recklessly,  and  Bertram  was  put 
to  it  for  the  moment  to  keep  his  seat. 

"Come,  come,  Carlos !  Lie  down  instantly,  sir !" 
cried  a  girlish  voice,  and  the  next  instant  a  young 


58  A  MESSAGE  UNDELIVERED 

girl  darted  forward  and  put  a  restraining  hand  on 
the  dog's  collar.  He  turned  his  attention  to  her, 
and  leaped  joyfully  upon  her,  almost  throwing  her 
down.  She  struck  him  aside  laughingly.  Ber- 
tram had  time  to  notice  the  beauty  of  one  who 
appeared  to  be  a  lovely  child,  with  a  figure  as 
straight  and  slim  as  the  pines  about  them.  Here 
was  the  grace  of  spring,  the  blossom  in  the  bud, 
unfolding  petal  by  petal.  Nothing  angular,  as  is 
beauty  in  its  first  years;  all  was  grace  and  life. 
Her  countenance  radiated  the  happiness  of  her 
charming  nature,  it  was  her  right  to  banish  all 
gloom,  as  the  rising  sun  dissipates  the  lingering 
darkness  of  the  night. 

"You  come  to  see  my  mother  ?"  she  began,  when 
the  dog  had  calmed  down  a  trifle.  She  looked  at 
him  with  such  a  frank  gaze  that  he  felt  embar- 
rassed. 

"Is  Mrs.  Sigogne  at  home?"  he  inquired  in  a 
very  cold  voice  because  of  his  embarrassment. 
"You  are  her  daughter — I  mean  her  step-daugh- 
ter?" 

"I  am  she,"  said  the  young  girl,  with  such  a 
roguish,  teasing  smile  that  it  sent  the  blood  to  Ber- 
tram's bovish  forehead.  "Let  me  show  yon  into 
the  house.  I  have  heard  so  much  about  the  people 


A  MESSAGE  UNDELIVERED  59 

at  Lyndhurst  lately,"  she  added,  in  order  to  con- 
vey to  him  the  knowledge  that  she  knew  who  he 
was. 

"My  mother  is  particularly  anxious  to  have  Mrs. 
Sigogne  to  herself  for  a  long  while,"  he  said,  with 
a  smile.  "That  is  the  chief  reason  why  I  came 
over." 

"Oh,  she  will  be  glad  to  see  you — and  I  also," 
she  added,  with  the  innocent  mischievousness  that 
seemed  part  of  her  nature.  "You  are  Bertram 
Lackland?" 

"Why,  yes — and  you  are  Helen  Sigogne.  We 
are  not  really  strangers  to  each  other,  Miss 
Sigogne.  Do  you  intend  to  stay  at  The  Pines  for 
the  winter?" 

"I  have  no  idea,"  said  the  young  girl,  shrug- 
ging her  shoulders.  "I  do  not  mind,  as  I  am  not 
yet  'out,'  so  I  won't  care  much  for  the  city  this 
year.  Papa  put  no  restrictions  on  me  at  all — I 
did  just  as  I  pleased.  But  mother  and  the  Sisters 
have  taught  me  differently,  and  I  shall  try  to  be 
very  good.  Sometimes  it  is  hard,  but  I  am  getting 
used  to  it." 

Bertram  Lackland  was  so  young  himself  that 
this  naive  confession  did  not  seem  as  humorous  as 
it  would  have  sounded  to  an  older  man.  He  only 


CO  A  MESSAGE  UNDELIVERED 

knew  that  this  childish  young  person  was  delight- 
ful, and  that  she  had  a  very  beautiful  face.  As 
they  approached  the  steps  a  servant  in  livery  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway. 

"Attend  to  the  horse,  Dan/'  said  the  girl.  "I 
will  take  Mr.  Lackland  to  my  mother — where  is 
Mrs.  Sigogne?" 

"In  the  library,  I  think,  miss,"  said  the  man. 
Bertram  followed  Helen  into  the  lofty  room,  where 
Mrs.  Sigogne  was  seated  at  the  table,  a  volume  ly- 
ing open  before  her.  There  was  a  puzzled  frown 
on  her  fair  face,  and  Bertram  saw  that  the  book 
was  filled  with  figures.  The  woman  herself  was 
striking.  Every  movement  betrayed  a  careless,  un- 
conscious grace.  Her  loveliness  and  her  whole 
girlish  bearing  belied  even  her  twenty-seven  years. 
Life  had  gone  easily  with  Marion  Sigogne.  Her 
deep-blue  eyes  were  like  wells  of  light,  serene,  un- 
clouded. She  motioned  Bertram  to  a  chair,  and 
then  Helen  perched  on  the  arm  of  hers.  Bertram 
delivered  his  message. 

"That  is  good,"  she  said.  "You  will  stay  to 
luncheon,  and  then  we  can  go  over  together.  Do 
you  care  to  come,  Helen  ?" 

"Of  course  I  do,"  answered  the  girl. 

Marion  Sigogne,  cultured  and  highly  bred,  had 


A  MESSAGE  UNDELIVERED  61 

the  art  of  putting  every  one  at  his  ease.  Soon  the 
three  were  engaged  in  animated  conversation,  dur- 
ing which  Bertram  spoke  of  Gregory's  return,  and 
the  pleasure  it  had  given  them  all  at  Lyndhurst. 

"It  is  good  news  here,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Sigogne. 
"I  have  known  Gregory  many  years."  Her  cheeks 
flushed  slightly,  and  her  eyes  were  suddenly  daz- 
zling. She  gave  Bertram  a  quick  glance,  but  his 
face  was  unconscious.  She  seemed  to  breathe 
more  freely. 

Later,  the  two  ladies  drove  to  Lyndhurst,  and 
Bertram  rode  beside  the  carriage.  The  day  was 
delightful.  The  young  fellow  had  never  been  so 
happy,  although  he  could  not  analyze  his  happi- 
ness. Youth  was  in  his  veins,  his  conscience  was 
at  rest,  and  the  prettiest  girl  he  had  ever  met  in  his 
life  talked  to  him  engagingly.  At  Lyndhurst, 
Mrs.  Lackland  came  out  on  the  terrace  to  greet 
them,  and  carried  Mrs.  Sigogne  off  with  her. 
Pauline  had  hidden  herself  from  chance  encoun- 
ter. That  she  must  meet  her  aunt's  friends,  she 
knew,  but  every  fresh  acquaintance  filled  her  with 
dread.  The  plans  which  her  aunt  had  made  for 
a  gay  winter  tortured  her,  but  she  repressed  her 
feelings.  She  had  no  right  to  protest — she  must 
permit  this  kind  heart  to  do  as  it  willed  with  her, 


62  A  MESSAGE  UNDELIVERED 

though  at  times  her  sense  of  dependence  galled 
her.  Willingly  would  she  have  entered  one  of  the 
huge  factories  that  held  so  many  human  beings 
toiling  for  their  daily  bread,  and  deemed  herself 
happy  to  work  the  long  day  among  them.  But 
this  was  not  to  be — at  least  not  yet — and  she 
shrank  from  entering  a  world  that  somewhere 
might  bring  her  face  to  face  with  the  man  she 
feared  and  dreaded  with  all  her  heart. 

So  now,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  trembled  when 
at  last  she  was  summoned  to  the  drawing-room. 
She  was  clad,  as  usual,  in  white  and  she  stood 
looking  at  her  pale  face  in  the  glass  a  moment  be- 
fore going  down.  She  felt  very  old  and  tired — 
and  she  was  but  twenty !  Her  lips  curved  a  little. 
And  it  was  so  Marion  Sigogne  saw  her  first — the 
girl  of  whom  she  had  heard  so  much — the  pale, 
golden-haired  girl,  whose  only  claim  to  beauty 
seemed  to  be  in  the  striking  contrast  between  her 
pallor  and  the  darkness  of  her  great  gray  eyes. 
That  line  of  disdain  still  lingered  about  her 
lips. 

"Why,  she  is  not  even  pretty/'  thought  the 
beautiful  woman.  Then  Pauline  looked  at  her. 
"She  just  misses  being  a  paragon/'  she  amended. 

"Your  aunt  has  been  speaking  of  you,"  she  said, 


A  MESSAGE  UNDELIVERED  63 

holding  out  her  hand.  "Will  you  be  friends  with 
me,  Pauline?" 

The  girl  took  her  hand  gently. 

"If  you  care  to  have  me  for  a  friend  when  you 
know  me  better/'  she  said.  The  words  were  not 
humble — Pauline  did  not  mean  them  so. 

"We  have  great  doings  planned  for  this  happy 

winter  ...  I  would  go  to  Madam  B for 

the  new  gowns/'  she  added,  turning  to  Mrs.  Lack- 
land. "She  is  so  artistic.  She  will  make  Pauline 
a  joy  forever." 

The  girl  looked  inquiringly  at  her  aunt. 

"Oh,  clothes!  One  can't  go  about  without 
clothes/'  said  that  lady  good-humoredly,  in  an- 
swer to  Pauline's  questioning  glance.  "And  I 
shall  be  so  busy  this  year  that  Mrs.  Sigogne  has 
promised  to  take  much  of  the  entertaining  off  my 
hands,  so  that  I  will  only  have  to  enjoy  it — and 
to  see  you  enjoy  it,  too,  dear,"  she  added  affec- 
tionately. 

For  the  next  week  new  channels  of  pleasure 
seemed  to  open  before  the  girl.  She  was  won,  in 
spite  of  herself,  by  Helen's  gayety,  her  delightful 
childishness.  Under  the  soft  influence  of  this 
happy,  radiant  creature,  Pauline  expanded  into 
new  life.  Bertram,  too,  was  more  satisfactory,  his 


64  A  MESSAGE  UNDELIVERED 

odd  socialistic  notions  forgotten.  They  were 
young  and  healthy,  and  the  autumn  mornings 
were  made  for  the  long  canters  on  horseback,  the 
delightful  little  trips  to  near-by  points.  The  shad- 
ows seemed  to  leave  Pauline's  eyes,  the  lips  lost 
their  weary  curves.  She  was  young  and  happy  and 
gay  herself,  as  she  had  never  been  in  all  her 
life. 

That  week  she  kept  away  from  the  factories. 
She  could  do  no  good — and  she  thought  that  when 
Gregory  Lackland  returned  the  men  might  be  able 
to  reach  him.  She  had  not  forgotten  Mrs.  Lack- 
land's  grave  displeasure  at  her  intervention.  She 
would  wait.  And  the  days  sped  by — happy,  cheer- 
ful days  for  her. 

They  had  been  on  an  impromptu  picnic  to 
Squaw  Island,  the  three,  the  last  day  of  that 
peaceful  week,  and  Bertram  and  Helen  had  wan- 
dered off,  leaving  her  seated  alone  beside  the  shore. 
Lost  in  her  own  thoughts  she  did  not  hear  any  one 
approaching,  until  a  familiar  voice  fell  on  her  ear. 

"Miss  Faulkner!  This  is  indeed  a  pleasure!  I 
had  no  idea  I  should  find  you  so  easily." 

She  jumped  to  her  feet  hastily.  Julian  Stan- 
hope was  standing  beside  her. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  looking  about.     "Helen  and 


A  MESSAGE  UNDELIVERED  65 

Bertram  were  here  but  a  moment  ago  .  .  .  They 
must  be  about.  I  shall  go  look  for  them." 

He  smiled. 

"You  will  not  have  far  to  look — they  are  just  at 
the  bend  there,  gathering  shells.  What  do  you 
think  of  Miss  Helen?" 

"She  is  a  beautiful,  happy-hearted  child/'  she 
answered.  "I  have  never  met  any  one  so  un- 
spoiled— and  with  her  advantages  she  could  be  in- 
sufferable." 

"Yes,  indeed — and  Mrs.  Sigogne?  I  called  at 
The  Pines  last  evening.  She  speaks  of  you  in  ex- 
travagant terms." 

The  girl  said  nothing. 

"You  are  kindred  spirits,  I  take  it,"  he  pur- 
sued. "Far  above  the  ordinary  run  of  women." 
He  looked  at  her  keenly  an  instant.  Her  eyes 
were  averted,  and  the  little  line  of  hauteur  lurked 
about  her  lips.  It  but  made  her  more  attractive 
to  this  cold  and  cynical  man.  "My  dear  child," 
he  went  on,  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone,  "you 
will  pardon  me  if  I  seem  abrupt  now  ?  I  may  not 
have  the  chance  to  talk  to  you  alone  again.  And 
I  was  given  a  message  to  put  into  your  hands  if 
ever  I  came  across  you.  Have  I  your  consent  to 
deliver  it?" 


C6  A  MESSAGE  UNDELIVERED 

A  trembling  seized  her  limbs.  For  a  moment 
earth  and  sky  seemed  to  swim  madly  before  her 
eyes.  Then  by  a  superhuman  exertion  of  her 
will  she  braced  herself  calmly.  Her  face  was  pale. 
She  pointed  carelessly  toward  the  sky. 

"I  think  we  shall  have  rain,"  she  said,  "and  that 
in  a  very  short  while.  Will  you  please  call  Ber- 
tram and  Helen?  We  may  be  able  to  reach  the 
house  before  it  comes." 

He  hesitated.  There  was  a  look  of  admiration 
on  his  face.  He  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  but  she 
swung  around  upon  him  suddenly  and  stared  full 
into  his  eyes.  Indignation  was  there,  and  disdain 
and  fearlessness.  There  was  no  shrinking  now. 
She  was  no  coward  when  danger  must  be  braved. 
One  instant  he  met  the  straight  glance;  one  in- 
stant he  met  her  gaze  unfalteringly.  Then  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away. 


CHAPTER  VI 

GREGORY  LACKLAND  AT  HOME 

GREGORY  LACKLAND  had  been  home  a  week,  and 
the  week  had  been  taken  up  in  conversation  with 
his  mother,  in  long  walks,  in  some  shooting,  and 
a  good  deal  of  letter-writing  in  his  own  room. 
Once  or  twice  the  mother  spoke,  hurriedly,  of  fac- 
tory affairs,  but  it  was  plain  to  him  how  disagree- 
able was  the  subject.  She  had  been  head  and 
front  in  every  enterprise  for  the  past  ten  years, 
and  for  ten  years  preceding  his  father's  death  she 
had  been  chief  adviser.  To  give  up  what  had  be- 
come second  nature  to  her,  would,  he  felt,  only  in- 
jure her.  Nevertheless,  he  had  claims  to  urge.  He 
seemed  inclined  to  believe  that  she  left  too  much 
authority  in  the  hands  of  paid  assistants. 

"It  is  ridiculous,"  he  said,  with  a  good-humored 
smile,  "that  my  mother  will  see  her  two  sons  starv- 
ing for  work,  when  there  is  so  much  of  it  to  be 
done.  If  you  will  not  let  us  work,  dear  mother, 
we  must  look  elsewhere  for  employment.  I,  of 
course,  have  had  a  taste  of  it — but  you  are  not  do- 
ing right  by  Bertram.  It  is  only  his  natural 
67 


68      GREGORY  LACKLAND  AT  HOME 

goodness  that  will  keep  him  out  of  mischief — and 
that  not  long." 

Because  she  had  been  telling  herself  this,  Mrs. 
Lackland  resented  hearing  it  from  her  eldest  son. 
She  knew  it  was  true.  To  yield  up  anything  to 
these  two  boys  at  home,  willing  as  she  had  been 
to  do  it  abroad,  meant  yielding  up  everything. 
Yet  Gregory  felt  that  in  the  end  his  words  must 
have  some  effect.  He  had  a  great  reverence  and 
respect  for  her,  and  fully  appreciated  the  skill, 
energy,  and  perseverance  that  had  accomplished  so 
much.  Nor  was  she  by  any  means  an  elderly 
woman — being  just  a  little  over  fifty.  So  he  kept 
himself  in  the  background,  leaving  her  to  debate 
the  matter  in  her  own  mind.  He  fitted  up  a  sort 
of  laboratory  and  spent  his  hours  dabbling  with 
chemistry. 

"I  shall  become  one  of  those  recluse  scientists 
we  read  about,"  he  asserted  laughingly,  when  his 
mother  remonstrated  with  him.  "There  is  no  tell- 
ing what  great  discovery  I  shall  make  in  the  end." 

Pauline  and  he  had  little  in  common.  They 
often  quarreled  good-humoredly,  for  Gregory 
could  not  or  would  not  be  offended  at  anything  she 
could  say.  He  took  things  too  lightly  for  a  man 
of  his  years,  thought  the  girl,  with  some  contempt. 


GREGORY  LACKLAND  AT  HOME      69 

His  mother  had  told  him  Pauline's  story,  and  he 
felt  a  tender,  heartfelt  pity  for  her,  such  as  one 
might  feel  for  a  wounded  fledgling  too  early  fallen 
from  its  nest.  He  treated  her  as  if  she  were  a 
child — and  this  itself  was  humiliating  to  the  girl, 
used  all  her  life  to  being  addressed  by  men  as  their 
equal.  She  could  not  understand  Gregory  Lack- 
land. If  he  had  opinions,  ideas,  he  expressed  them 
openly,  frankly,  and  this,  again,  nonplussed  her. 

One  night,  a  fortnight  after  his  homecoming, 
dinner  had  been  announced  some  time,  and  all 
were  waiting  for  him.  Mrs.  Lackland  had  sent 
once  or  twice  to  his  room,  and  had  ordered  two  of 
the  servants  to  look  for  him.  But  he  was  not  about 
the  place.  His  mother  was  the  soul  of  punctuality. 
She  gave  orders  to  have  dinner  served — Gregory 
could  come  in  late  if  it  pleased  him.  They  had 
just  finished  their  meal  when  the  young  man  en- 
tered. He  seemed  depressed  and  sat  down  with- 
out a  word. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  mother,  a  little  anx- 
iously. 

"Nothing — nothing  of  any  account,"  he  an- 
swered readily  enough.  "At  least  not  worth 
bothering  about  until  we  finish  dinner." 

"Where  have  you  been  since  luncheon  ?" 


70      GREGORY  LACKLAND  AT  HOME 

"In  the  town.    Over  to  the  East  Shore." 

She  knew  the  factory  was  meant — they  classi- 
fied the  two  big  factories  by  these  names — West 
Shore  and  East  Shore. 

"Oh!  The  men  have  been  annoying  you!" 

Gregory  said  nothing.  He  pushed  his  cup  away. 
Plainly,  he  was  very  much  disturbed. 

"What  have  they  been  saying?"  asked  Mrs. 
Lackland  impetuously,  when  the  servant  had  with- 
drawn. "I  will  know,  Gregory." 

"Oh,  mother,  ifs  all  wrong,"  he  said,  in  a  con- 
strained voice.  "I  saw  Father  Richards  early  in 
the  day — and  then  I  went  into  the  factory.  I 
talked  to  Williamson.  Of  course,  they  can  live—- 
they can  manage  to  exist.  But,  heavens, 
mother " 

Mrs.  Lackland's  face  grew  hard. 

"When  you  are  master  you  can  do  as  you  please, 
Gregory.  Until  then  I  will  have  no  meddling." 
She  rose,  and  stood  leaning  against  the  table.  "I 
am  tired  of  this  interference,"  she  went  on.  "I 
want  you  to  understand  it,  as  well  as  Pauline. 
And  that  brings  me  to  a  decision  I  have  arrived  at 
within  the  last  few  days.  It  is  my  express  urish — 
my  command — that  you  continue  to  stay  away 
from  the  factory  people  altogether,  Pauline.  My 


GREGORY  LACKLAND  AT  HOME      71 

managers  say  that  things  have  been  going  much 
better  recently."  And  she  left  the  room  without 
waiting  for  a  reply. 

"I  do  not  understand  mother/'  said  Bertram. 
"She  is  so  kind-hearted  naturally — and  yet  she 
seems  to  think  the  factory  people  slaves." 

"Why  don't  you  tell  her  so?"  said  Gregory  ir- 
ritably. 

"My  dear  brother,"  said  the  young  man,  with  all 
the  patronage  of  his  twenty-one  years  in  his  voice, 
"our  mother  has  no  use  for  the  enlightened  prog- 
ress of  these  times." 

"And  have  you?" 

"I  hope  so.  We  are  all  brothers,  all  free  and 
equal." 

"Rot!"  said  Gregory. 

The  evening  bade  fair  to  end  in  a  family  squab- 
ble. Bertram  met  Pauline's  glance,  and  he  imag- 
ined there  was  mockery  in  the  smile  she  gave  him. 
His  eyes  blazed  angrily.  He  rose. 

"I  am  going  to  The  Pines,"  he  said,  "either  of 
you  coming?" 

"No,"  said  Pauline,  "I  am  tired." 

"No,"  said  Gregory  shortly. 

"It  is  strange  that  Mrs.  Sigogne  has  not  been 
here  since  you  came  home,"  he  continued  in  an 


72  GREGORY  LACKLAJfD  AT  HOME 

injured  tone  to  Gregory.  He  was  annoyed.  He 
had  been  to  The  Pines  twice  last  week  and  had 
met  no  one.  All  the  pleasant  intimacy  seemed  at 
an  end — he  could  not  even  catch  a  glimpse  of 
Helen. 

And  then  he  called  wounded  vanity  to  his  aid. 
What  did  he  care — he  did  not  love  her ;  he  was  not 
one  to  fall  in  love  so  easily !  So  he  buried  himself 
anew  in  his  questions  of  social  and  political  econ- 
omy. To-night  he  would  risk  another  visit — for 
the  last  time,  he  told  himself. 

"You  are  not  trying  to  nurse  the  immortal  flame 
of  liberty,  equality,  and  fraternity  in  my  brother's 
bosom,  I  see,"  remarked  Gregory,  somewhat  dis- 
agreeably to  Pauline  as  they  rose  and  went  into 
the  drawing-room  together. 

Pauline  pressed  her  mouth  together,  as  was  her 
habit. 

"You  are  going  to  try  to  quarrel  with  me,  too  ?" 
she  said  then.  "I  have  no  interest  in  your 
brother's  affairs." 

Voices  interrupted  them.  Bertram,  with  a  se- 
rene and  smiling  countenance,  opened  the  door  for 
Mrs.  Sigogne  and  Helen,  who  had  evidently  just 
arrived. 

"Oh,  Pauline !"  she  exclaimed,  advancing  to  the 


GREGORY  LACKLAND  AT  HOME      73 

girl's  side,  with  a  charming  smile.  "I  am  going  to 
scold  you  and  scold  you  well !  I  have  not  been  here 
in  an  age — have  been  just  as  ill  as  I  could  be,  but 
no  one  from  Lyndhurst  comes  to  inquire  about 
me!" 

"Upon  my  word,"  protested  Bertram,  "I  called 
twice — I  did  indeed,  and  both  times  they  told  me 
you  were  not  at  home — nor  Miss  Helen,  either," 
with  a  reproachful  glance  at  the  lovely  girl. 

Then  Marion  Sigogne,  releasing  Pauline's  hand, 
held  out  her  slim  fingers  to  Gregory. 

"I  am  delighted  to  see  you,"  she  said  pleasantly. 
"But  I  am  offended,  too.  I  could  not  come  and 
you  would  not.  You  have  been  at  home  so  long — 
do  you  care  so  little  for  your  old  friends?" 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  she  asked  for  Mrs. 
Lackland. 

"I  will  call  her,"  said  Pauline  quickly. 

"No,  no — Bertram,  you  must  go,"  said  Helen 
quickly.  "If  Pauline  gets  away  she's  apt  to  stay 
too  long — and  I  am  famished  for  a  chat  with  her." 
Gregory  was  so  plainly  upset  and  disturbed  that 
Marion  Sigogne  could  not  but  note  it.  She  was 
ignorant  of  the  little  annoyances  that  had  preceded 
her  visit,  and  attributed  his  manner  to  another 
cause.  No  one  but  she  and  Gregory  knew  how 


74      GREGORY  LACKLAXD  AT  HOME 

embarrassing  was  this  situation,  but  the  best  way 
out  of  a  disagreeable  situation  is  to  ignore  it,  and 
this  she  proceeded  to  do.  Mrs.  Lackland  entered. 
Her  guest  was  brilliant,  good-humored,  elegant — 
and  all  the  time  she  was  secretly  comparing  the 
silent  Gregory  Lackland  before  her  with  the  one 
she  had  known  in  the  past.  There  was  no  trace 
of  grief  or  care  upon  that  forehead.  The  firm 
chin,  the  lips  with  their  proud  smile,  the  brown 
eyes  with  golden  gleams  in  them — all  showed  a 
quiet  self-confidence,  a  manly  self-possession.  Only 
the  deep  furrows  between  the  eyebrows  showed  that 
his  life  had  not  always  been  peaceful.  The  con- 
versation became  general,  and  in  spite  of  himself 
Gregory  was  drawn  into  it.  Marion  spoke  of  the 
difficulty  she  had  in  straightening  out  her  affairs. 
She  spoke  of  herself  as  a  matron  occupied  with 
many  important  matters,  as  if  the  thoughts  of 
youth  were  far  behind  her.  Her  words  sounded 
odd.  To  hear  her  and  to  look  at  her  was  to  ques- 
tion her  sincerity. 

"The  place  is  simply  going  to  ruin,"  she  said. 
"You  know  how  poor  Paul  loved  it/'  she  addressed 
herself  to  Mrs.  Lackland.  "His  heart  was  really 
wrapped  up  in  it.  It  came  before  Helen  or  myself, 
in  his  estimation.  And  now  to  see  it  in  this  con- 


GREGORY  LACKLAND  AT  HOME      75 

dition.  I  can't  seem  to  get  any  suitable  man  at 
all " 

"Let  Gregory  help  you,"  said  Mrs.  Lackland 
quietly. 

A  slight  flush  crept  into  Gregory's  olive  cheek. 
Marion's  eyes  were  hidden. 

"Oh,  I  could  not  think  of  imposing " 

"My  time  is  utterly  valueless  at  present,"  said 
the  young  man.  "I  will  be  glad  to  assist  you — 
out  of  the  worst  of  the  tangle,  at  any  rate.'* 

Pauline  noticed  his  attitude.  This  did  not  seem 
like  the  Gregory  Lackland  she  knew.  Uncon- 
sciously she  studied  them,  wondering  what  had 
transpired  between  them,  what  misunderstand- 
ing ?  Marion  Sigogne  was  young  and  beautiful — 
Gregory  Lackland  young  and  handsome.  Mrs. 
Lackland  would  surely  welcome  her  as  a  daughter. 
But  there  was  a  curious  expression  on  Gregory's 
face  which  the  girl  found  hard  to  fathom.  It  was 
not  Marion  Sigogne's  intention  to  seem  to  care  how 
Gregory  Lackland  looked  or  acted.  She  thanked 
him  quietly,  and  then  drifted  off  into  another 
topic  with  Mrs.  Lackland. 

"Has  Mr.  Stanhope  been  here  recently?"  she 
asked.  "He,  too,  has  deserted  us.  We  are  to  see 
a  good  deal  of  him  this  winter  unless  something 


76      GREGORY  LACKLAND  AT  HOME 

unexpected  turns  up.  He  is  quite  taken  with  your 
little  niece,"  she  added,  in  an  undertone.  "That 
would  not  be  a  bad  solution  of  your  difficulty,"  she 
added.  "They  are  of  sympathetic  tastes,  and  at 
least,"  with  a  low  laugh,  "he  is  too  well  content 
with  the  good  things  of  this  world  to  wish  to  de- 
prive himself  of  any  of  them  by  foolish  notions." 

"As  to  that,  the  girl  can  make  her  own  choice," 
said  Mrs.  Lackland  quietly.  "She  has  been  harried 
and  pushed  about  all  her  life.  Now  she  shall  do 
just  exactly  as  she  pleases." 

"That  is  rather  dangerous.  I  would  not  like  to 
say  that  of  Helen.  She  might  choose  the  wrong 
one." 

"Ah !  There  is  a  difference  of  a  score  of  years 
in  judging  there,  although  only  three  actually," 
said  Mrs.  Lackland.  She  sighed  a  little.  "My 
poor  Pauline!" 

"The  longer  you  stay  here,  the  longer  you  defer 
helping  her,"  said  Marion  in  a  kind  tone.  "Why 
won't  you  take  a  rest,  dear  Mrs.  Lackland  ?  Those 
two  boys  of  yours  are  men  now,  and  must  have 
men's  work  to  do.  Why  should  Gregory  have  time 
to  bother  with  my  affairs,  when  yours  are  so  many 
and  so  varied?  Their  father  would  want  to  see 
them  settled  .  ." 


GREGORY  LACKLAND  AT  HOME      77 

"I  tell  myself  that  so  often,"  agreed  Mrs.  Lack- 
land, with  a  sigh.  "And  it  was  to  make  some  ar- 
rangements of  that  sort  that  I  had  Masterson  here. 
But  my  courage  failed  me  at  the  last  moment.  I 
have  never  been  an  idle  woman,  Marion,  and  I 
have  the  grip  of  things  so  securely  in  my  grasp 
that  I  can't  bear  to  let  them  go.  I  am  trying  to 
decide.  Why  didn't  Gregory  stay  in  London, 
where  things  were  shaping  themselves  so  well  un- 
der his  direction?  He  has  given  me  no  explana- 
tion, save  that  the  life  was  unbearable  from  sheer 
laziness.  Imagine  that !" 

"You  are  doing  your  very  best  to  ruin  your  two 
sons,"  said  Marion  Sigogne.  "Don't  be  offended 
at  my  remarks — I  am  privileged.  But  this  can 
not  last.  You  will  estrange  them,  surely.  Ber- 
tram is  naturally  indolent,  a  dreamer,  I  take  it — 
but  when  something — or  some  one — arouses  him 
from  his  dream,  what  then?  You  must  have  an 
answer  ready." 

"You  speak  as  if  our  positions  were  reversed," 
said  Mrs.  Lackland  in  a  vexed  voice. 

"God  forbid,"  said  the  younger  woman.  "I 
hate  business — I  couldn't  add  a  column  straight 
to  save  my  life.  The  very  thought  of  you — just 
the  thought — oppresses  me  so  that  I  have  to  plunge 


78      GREGORY  LACKLAND  AT  HOME 

into  some  wildly  foolish  scheme  to  avoid  being  de- 
pressed. How  can  you  stand  it?  And  manage 
things  ?  I  would  go  mad !" 

Her  earnestness  was  so  unfeigned  that  Mrs. 
Lackland  smiled. 

"At  least  I  am  contemplating  a  change,"  she 
said.  "When  that  house  of  mine  is  finished  I  shall 
plunge  with  you,  just  for  the  sake  of  the  experi- 
ence. I  know  I  shall  be  sick  of  the  whole  thing 
in  a  fortnight,  but  for  Pauline's  sake " 

Marion  nodded. 

"When  do  you  leave  Lyndhurst?" 

"If  nothing  happens,  this  day  week." 

"That's  good — although  The  Pines  seems  par- 
ticularly desirable  just  now.  I  am  enjoying  these 
few  days — the  last  two  or  three  excepted — but  of 
course  one  can  not  be  well  always.  And  Helen  is 
so  devoted — she  simply  would  not  leave  me." 

They  were  silent  then — watching  the  others. 
Gregory  sat  a  little  apart,  a  thoughtful  expression 
on  his  face,  plainly  preoccupied.  Marion  Sigogne 
glanced  at  him  casually,  and  then,  seeing  that  he 
was  not  observing  her,  more  keenly.  Pauline  and 
Helen  were  listening  to  Bertram's  description  of 
some  college  happening,  and  Helen's  face  was 
wreathed  with  smiles.  Not  so  Pauline's.  Marion's 


GREGORY  LACKLAND  AT  HOME      79 

eyes  strayed  from  Gregory's  face  to  the  girl's  and 
back  again,  curiously.  He  was  so  thoughtful,  so 
earnest — how  strange  that  they  had,  apparently,  at 
least,  so  little  in  common. 

"She  is  an  odd  girl,"  thought  Marion.     "I  do 
not  think  she  will  ever  be  happy/' 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  DATS  BETWEEN 

FOR  the  next  few  days  Gregory  spent  much  time 
at  The  Pines,  trying  to  straighten  out  Mrs. 
Sigogne's  tangled  affairs.  He  did  not  ask  himself 
why  they  were  so  tangled,  nor  did  he  give  her  any 
advice  on  how  to  avoid  tangling  them.  He  was 
calmly  practical,  friendly,  pleasant — nothing 
more.  For  that  which  was  past  he  entertained 
neither  anger  nor  resentment.  "Who  would  re- 
sent what  is  forgotten?"  he  asked  himself.  His 
heart  was  in  no  danger — therefore,  in  acknowledg- 
ing Marion's  charm  and  youthful  beauty,  why  was 
not  a  certain  friendship  permissible  between  them  ? 

Regarding  his  own  personal  interests  he  was  in 
a  quandary.  He  had  not  broached  the  subject  to 
his  mother,  but  he  felt  a  sense  of  injury.  It  was 
his  right  to  step  into  his  father's  shoes,  to  take 
the  reins  which  his  father  had  relinquished.  He 
was  fitted  for  the  life,  and  he  did  not  consider  it 
justice  to  himself  or  to  his  brother  to  be  kept  in 
the  background,  to  fill  any  gap  which  his  mother 

might  choose  to  open  for  him.    He  had  the  sense 
80 


THE  DAYS  BETWEEN  81 

of  order,  the  practical  business  ability.  He  knew 
that  she  was  right  and  just  in  the  administration 
of  affairs,  but  there  were  so  many  things  to  which 
she  seemed  perversely  blind.  She  did  not  have  a 
man's  view,  he  thought,  and  then  chided  himself 
for  unfair  criticism.  But  he  was  right.  She  left 
too  much  in  the  hands  of  others;  she  made  rules 
which  were  inflexible,  and  the  ones  in  whom  she 
put  her  trust  exceeded  their  authority. 

It  could  not  last — he  knew  that.  So  to  occupy 
the  "days  between"  as  he  classified  them,  he  took 
care  of  Marion  Sigogne's  affairs.  Of  one  thing 
he  was  positive — he  would  not  go  to  the  city  with 
them,  to  dance  attendance  on  the  fair  young  widow 
and  Pauline,  the  serious.  Bertram  could  do  that 
to  perfection — any  one  could  see  that  he  asked 
nothing  better  than  to  run  when  little  Helen 
nodded.  But  Gregory  was  a  man. 

He  saw  much  of  Helen  during  those  days,  and 
realized  that  under  her  arch  and  mischievous  man- 
ner there  existed  a  very  tender  heart.  She  was 
much  attached  to  her  stepmother,  and  perhaps 
Gregory's  views  of  Marion  Sigogne  changed  a  lit- 
tle when  he  realized  in  what  a  light  Helen  re- 
garded her.  Apparently  unconscious  of  her  own 
sweet  loveliness,  she  thought  Marion  supremely 


82  THE  DAYS  BETWEEN 

beautiful.  She  was,  too,  the  soul  of  gentleness  and 
courtesy  toward  the  servants  and  even  to  Gregory 
himself. 

"Our  affairs  seem  to  be  giving  you  a  lot  of 
trouble,"  she  said  to  him  one  day.  "Papa  always 
said  he  wished  mother  had  better  developed  busi- 
ness instincts.  But  then  one  can't  hare  every- 
thing." 

"No,  indeed,"  he  answered,  smiling.  He  had 
some  papers  in  his  hand,  which  he  was  glancing 
over,  and  laid  aside  his  cigar  when  she  came  up 
to  him  on  the  terrace.  With  a  little  grimace  she 
picked  up  the  weed  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"Please  don't  let  it  go  out  on  my  account,"  she 
said.  "You  do  certainly  smoke  a  great  deal.  Papa 
used  to  also — and  I  like  it." 

"You  are  as  sensible  as  you  are  charming,"  he 
answered,  smiling  at  her. 

"Thank  you."  They  were  interrupted  by  the 
sound  of  a  horse's  galloping. 

"Why,  that  is  Bertram!"  said  Helen  ingenu- 
ously. "I  know  Soliman's  step." 

"Oh!  You  do!"  laughed  Gregory  teasingly. 
"What  a  trained  ear  you  must  have !" 

Helen  blushed  and  pouted.  Both  looked  toward 
the  avenue  of  pines  that  led  to  the  gate.  Bertram 


THE  DAYS  BETWEEN  83 

Lackland  slipped  from  his  horse  and  led  him  to 
the  foot  of  the  steps.  The  smile  on  Helen's  face 
and  her  heightened  color,  and  the  free-and-easy 
air  with  which  Gregory  regarded  him,  acted  rather 
unpleasantly  on  the  young  man. 

"It  is  quite  by  accident  that  I  turned  in  here," 
he  began.  "Soliman  seemed  to  be  determined  to 
visit  you." 

Helen  laughed  blithely,  mockingly. 

"Let  Soliman  make  his  own  excuses,  then,"  she 
said.  "And  since  I  must  thank  Soliman,  I  shall 
not  say  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

"Oh,  I  can  not  stay — I  must  go  back  immedi- 
ately." 

"I'm  sorry.  Mr.  Stanhope  is  coming,  and 
Pauline,  too,  this  afternoon.  We're  all  going  to 
Squaw  Island,  and  Gregory  will  teach  me  how  to 
use  a  rifle.  But  if  you  are  busy,  I'm  afraid  we'll 
have  to  do  without  you." 

Bertram  did  not  take  this  in  good  parts.  He 
flushed  angrily,  and  stood  with  his  hand  on  Soli- 
man's  neck.  He  looked  so  like  a  school-boy  who 
had  been  reprimanded,  that  Gregory  barely  sup- 
pressed a  laugh.  He  could  not  realize  that  Ber- 
tram was  on  the  verge  of  manhood — the  six  years' 
difference  in  their  ages  made  him  feel  so  much  the 


84  THE  DAYS  BETWEEN 

older  of  the  two.  Helen  glanced  at  him  and  saw 
the  frown  on  his  forehead.  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders  carelessly. 

"I  must  go  in,"  she  said.  "I  have  something 
important  to  do — before  Mr.  Stanhope  comes." 

There  was  a  teasing  little  smile  on  her  lips  as 
she  said  this.  The  next  moment  Gregory  was  look- 
ing with  amusement  into  his  brother's  angry  face. 

"You  foolish  lad !"  he  said.  "Don't  you  see  she 
is  just  laughing  at  you — she  doesn't  mean  it?" 

"She  won't  laugh  at  me  very  long,"  said  Ber- 
tram furiously.  "I  shan't  give  her  the  chance 
again  in  a  hurry." 

He  leaped  on  Soliman  as  he  spoke  and  the  next 
minute  was  tearing  down  the  avenue. 

"Helen,  Helen,  you  are  a  little  mischief-maker  !'* 
said  Gregory,  half-aloud.  "What  are  you  doing 
to  poor  Bertram?" 

Once  or  twice,  in  company  with  Mrs.  Sigogne, 
Julian  Stanhope  had  called  at  Lyndhurst,  but  each 
time  Pauline  evaded  him.  It  was  therefore  with 
some  displeasure  that  she  saw  him  seated  in 
Marion  Sigogne's  drawing-room  later  that  day. 
Bertram,  repenting  of  his  hastiness,  accompanied 
Pauline,  while  Helen,  who  had  felt  sure  of  his  re- 
turn, pretended  to  ignore  him,  and  played  with 


TEE  DAYS  BETWEEN  85 

Carlos,  lying  at  her  feet,  or  did  her  best  to  flirt 
with  Gregory,  who,  while  not  responding  in  the 
least  to  her  efforts,  was  highly  amused  at  the 
glowering  eyes  of  the  young  man  seated  opposite 
him.  He  knew  that  while  Helen  was  enjoying  the 
game  hugely,  it  was  driving  Bertram  into  a  des- 
perate mood.  He  fell  in  somewhat  diffidently  with 
their  plans  for  the  afternoon — rather  out  of  a 
mildly  questioning  attitude  regarding  Bertram 
and  Helen  than  from  any  amusement  he  might 
find  in  the  jaunt.  True,  he  had  vaguely  promised 
the  young  girl  to  show  her  how  to  handle  the  small, 
silver-mounted  toy  which  her  stepmother  had  given 
her  on  a  preceding  birthday,  but  he  knew  that  she 
would  not  require  much  of  his  attention — nor  ex- 
pect it. 

Squaw  Island  was  at  its  best,  and  this  was  an 
ideal  autumn  afternoon.  The  walk  through  the 
woods  toward  the  little  bay  where  the  boats  were 
tied  was  beautiful.  Helen  and  Carlos  led,  and  Ber- 
tram soon  caught  up  with  the  girl.  By  a  glance 
Marion  had  signified  her  wish  that  Gregory  remain 
beside  her,  and  so  Pauline  had  no  choice  of  a  com- 
panion. Marion  and  Gregory  chatted  gaily. 
Pauline  stayed  as  close  to  them  as  possible,  so  that 
Julian  Stanhope  might  join  in  their  conversation, 


86  THE   DATS   BETWEEN 

rather  than  depend  on  her  for  entertainment.  He 
was  particularly  brilliant  this  afternoon — being, 
above  all  things,  a  good  talker,  not  alone  convers- 
ing well  himself,  but  drawing  the  best  from  others. 
The  main  topic  was  the  coming  winter  and  all  that 
was  to  be  seen  and  done  in  the  city.  Gregory  en- 
tered into  their  prospects  with  every  appearance  of 
good  will.  Pauline  alone  was  silent— even  Ber- 
tram and  Helen  were  side  by  side  now — she  alone 
felt  out  of  her  element ;  through  her  own  wish,  her 
own  fault,  she  told  herself  calmly  and  without 
bitterness. 

Marion  was  not  averse  to  loitering  behind  at  the 
island.  She  was  an  idler,  pure  and  simple,  she 
confessed  laughingly,  and  she  paused  under  a  big 
oak  tree  whose  half-bare  branches  reared  above 
her,  the  sunlight  filtering  through  the  leaves  on 
her  soft,  dark  hair,  bringing  out  unexpected 
golden  lights  in  it.  Her  eyes  were  very  bright, 
her  face  gravely  attentive. 

"Besides,"  she  added,  "I  don't  know  why,  but  it 
seems  as  if  the  mood  is  on  me  to  talk  of  something 
which  has  occupied  me  very  much  lately.  I  won- 
der what  you  will  think  of  it." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  a  poor  guesser,"  he  said. 


THE  DAYS  BETWEEN  87 

"Gregory,"  she  began,  not  looking  at  him,  but 
reaching  forward  for  the  branch  near  her  and 
plucking  a  leaf  idly,  "why  are  you  satisfied  to 
remain — as  you  are?" 

He  looked  his  astonishment. 

"Your  mother  is  strong,  capable,  earnest.  She 
has  no  wish  to  yield  the  reins  of  government  to 
either  of  her  sons.  And  you — life  might  be  so 
different  for  you.  There  is  such  power  in  store 
for  the  man  who  cares  for  it " 

He  smiled  grimly. 

"I  know  the  life  I  am  fitted  for/' 

"Oh,  yes,  perhaps  you  do — I  know  you  do. 
Nevertheless,  there  is  work  for  the  man  of  parts  to- 
day. Political  life  is  an  attraction — it  would  be 
for  me,  I  know,  if  I  were  a  man.  Judge  Masterson 
has  much  influence  and  then  (there  are  my  people) 
— the  Governor " 

He  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"I  do  not  know  whether  to  be  flattered  or 
amused,"  he  said.  "I  am  not  fond  of  politics,  I 
shall  never  take  part  in  them.  Mine  is  a  much 
humbler  ambition:  one  which  I  am  fitted  for.  I 
am  to  fill  my  father's  place  in  the  world." 

"A  manufacturer  ?    Any  one  can  be  that !" 

"An  employer  of  men — a  just,  honest,  liberal 


88  THE  DAYS  BETWEEN 

master,  who  will  sympathize  with  his  fellow- 
laborers/' 

"Leave  that  to  Bertram,"  she  said  gently.  "You 
are  to  reach  a  higher  scale — attain  a  nobler  pur- 
pose. Not  to  do  good  to  a  few  thousand  souls,  but 
to  many  thousands — to  make  just  laws  and  have 
them  enacted — to  benefit  your  country  .  .  .  Ah ! 
Forgive  me!  My  dreams  are  past.  Helen  will 
soon  go  to  a  home  of  her  own;  she  is  young, 
wealthy,  beautiful,  and  I  shall  be  left  to  my  own 
devices.  Can  I  not,  my  dear  friend,  think  of  a 
glorious  future  for  you  and  rejoice  in  it?" 

She  did  not  look  at  him,  but  he  bent  his  eyes 
upon  her,  and  in  spite  of  herself  she  was  forced 
to  meet  them. 

"No,"  he  said  calmly,  "there  is  no  future  for 
me  over  which  you  can  enthuse.  Once  you  could 
have  bent  me  to  your  will.  That  time  is  past — but 
that  it  is  past  is  not  my  fault.  Was  it  yours, 
Marion  Sigogne?" 

In  spite  of  her  apparent  self-control,  her  heart 
bounded  with  exultation.  Then  he  had  not  for- 
gotten, he  had  not  forgotten ! 

"You  have  condemned  me  utterly?" 

He  smiled.  There  was  no  emotion  in  his  eyes 
or  in  his  face.  And  yet  she  must  justify  herself 


THE  DAYS  BETWEEN  89 

— she  dare  not  let  this  moment  slip  by.  For  she 
had  loved  him  honestly,  with  the  first  love  of  her 
girlish  heart,  and  he  had  been  then  as  Bertram 
was  now,  young,  ardent,  impetuous.  She  was  poor, 
as  poor  as  she  was  lovely.  Gregory,  a  boy  at  col- 
lege, depending  on  his  mother  for  everything, 
would  have  her  wait  for  him  until  he  could  make 
a  home  for  the  woman  he  loved.  Across  this  plan 
for  the  future  came  her  uncle's  friend,  Paul 
Sigogne.  His  wealth  was  enormous — as  his  wife 
her  every  desire  would  be  gratified.  Here  were 
power  and  luxury  in  her  grasp  and  she  accepted 
them.  She  told  Gregory  nothing — a  brief  note  on 
her  marriage-day  conveyed  the  news  to  him,  and 
from  that  time  on  she  had  seen  nothing  of  him. 

Yet  she  had  done  her  duty.  She  was  a  faithful 
wife  for  six  years,  and  had  mourned  her  husband 
sincerely  when  he  died.  Gregory  looked  at  her. 
She  was  more  beautiful — than  ever — and  yet  he 
had  forgotten.  He  looked  back  upon  the  suffer- 
ing of  that  year,  with  pity  for  the  foolish  boy  who 
had  spent  the  wealth  of  his  heart  on  a  phantom. 
This  was  not  the  girl  he  had  loved — this  lovely 
woman  who  was  humbling  herself  before  him. 

"I  do  not  know/'  he  answered  now  slowly.  "You 
were  right,  perhaps.  The  unfledged  school-boy 


90  THE  DAYS  BETWEEN 

had  no  right  to  declare  his  love,  he  had  no  right 
to  ask  your  affection.  It  was  hard,  then,  but  we 
learn  wisdom  with  the  years.  Perhaps  I  should 
thank  you  for  teaching  it  to  me,"  he  went  on,  with 
a  smile.  "And  now" — with  a  glance  ahead  of  him, 
"shall  we  go  on  ?  The  others  will  wonder  what  is 
detaining  us." 

She  bent  her  head.  He  did  not  look  at  her 
again,  but  her  face  said  nothing.  What  she 
thought,  what  she  had  expected  him  to  say,  what 
intimacy  she  meant  to  create  by  touching  on  the 
past,  he  did  not  know.  Gregory  Lackland  told 
himself,  evenly,  that  the  domestic  hearth  was  not 
his  vocation.  He  had  things  to  do  in  the  world 
that  would  make  him  a  poor  companion  for  any 
fireside. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  BIRD  OF  PASSAGE 

THE  informal  picnic  at  Squaw  Island  had 
turned  out  disastrously  for  all  concerned.  Helen 
had  shown  her  pique  plainly  to  Bertram,  and,  as 
is  the  way  with  foolish  young  lovers,  each  made 
a  mountain  out  of  a  molehill.  Pauline  Faulkner 
had  nothing  beyond  commonplaces  for  the  man  be- 
side her,  who,  try  as  he  might,  could  not  arouse 
her  to  interest.  Until,  daringly,  he  spoke  outright 
of  Penniston,  when  she  turned  on  him  with  flash- 
ing eyes. 

"Mr.  Stanhope/'  she  said,  "I  am  at  your  mercy, 
I  suppose — but  if  you  wish  to  speak  of  that  man, 
I  shall  be  forced  to  leave  you." 

"He  sends  word  of  those  who  are  dear  to  you, 
Miss  Faulkner.  A  message  from  your  sister, 
Muriel " 

The  girl  trembled  a  little. 

"I  shall  hear  from  her  in  good  time — not 
through  him." 

"Forgive  me,  Miss  Faulkner — I  do  not  want  to 

pain  you." 

91 


92 

There  was  a  note  of  earnestness  in  his  voice. 

"It  pains  me  to  be  reminded  of  him,"  she  said. 

"Then  I  shall  never  remind  you  of  him,"  he 
said.  "Above  all  things  I  would  be  your  friend. 
Will  you  not  let  me  be  your  friend?  Who  knows 
at  what  hour  you  may  need  some  one  faithful  to 
your  interests?" 

"Friendship  is  not  to  be  lightly  proffered  to  a 
bird  of  passage,"  she  answered.  "I  am  only  that." 

"Oh,  no — you  have  found  your  rightful  place 
with  us,  I  am  sure.  You  are  one  of  us  now,  for- 
ever and  all  time." 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said.  With  his  words,  a 
conviction  of  her  really  forlorn  condition  over- 
whelmed her.  One  of  them?  That  could  never, 
never  be!  She  was  a  stranger,  an  alien,  truly  a 
bird  of  passage!  Where  was  her  father?  What 
was  happening  to  Muriel,  whose  name  this 
stranger  could  mention  so  unexpectedly,  so 
lightly?  Was  she  happy  or  unhappy?  After  all, 
she  thought,  they  were  her  kindred,  and  she  loved 
them.  She  could  not  help  it.  She  thought  of  the 
past,  of  her  mother — of  her  mother's  sad  and  sud- 
den death — and  her  hands  grew  cold  and  an  iron 
band  seemed  settling  round  her  forehead.  She 
stopped  in  the  path. 


THE   BIRD    OF   PASSAGE  93 

"I  am  not  well,"  she  said.  "I  am  afraid  to  go 
any  farther.  Will  you  please  call  Bertram?" 

She  breathed  .more  freely  when  Julian  Stanhope 
had  left  her.  Oh,  why  had  she  come  here,  why, 
why?  She  turned  and  plunged  blindly  into  the 
woods,  and  made  her  way  over  the  underbrush  to 
the  shores  of  the  little  bay. 

"Oh,  I  must  do  something,  anything,"  she  said 
aloud.  "I  can  not  stand  this  idleness,  where  every 
word  has  power  to  hurt  me  so!  I  must  work. 
Work  is  my  vocation — no  wonder  I  am  unhappy. 
I  must  pray  more.  I  must  be  better."  And  then 
a  little  sob  broke  from  her.  "It  is  so  hard  to  be 
alone,  it  is  so  hard  to  be  alone !  Perhaps  if  I  were 
near  Muriel — if  I  could  only  be  near  Muriel " 

She  paused.  Muriel's  husband  was  a  necessary 
part  of  Penniston's  scheme — poor  Muriel  but  a 
pawn  in  the  game  he  was  playing.  Who  knew 
what  Muriel  might  be  enduring  now.  .  .  .  And 
she  dared  not  ask,  she  dared  not  listen !  She  had 
promised  Mrs.  Lackland  to  hear  nothing  from  that 
man.  But  oh !  if  she  could  but  know  that  Muriel 
was  happy ! 

They  found  her  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  little 
boat  a  half  hour  later.  Stanhope  was  vexed. 

"You  gave  me  quite  a  fright,  Miss  Faulkner," 


94  THE   BIRD    OF   PASSAGE 

he  said.  "I  had  no  idea  where  you  had  gone.  You 
look  ill — you  have  contracted  a  fever  here.  Let 
us  get  home  as  quickly  as  possible/'  he  said,  and 
Gregory  Lackland  looked  up  suddenly  with  frown- 
ing brows.  In  what  a  tone  of  authority  he  spoke ! 
He  glanced  at  Pauline.  She  sat  staring  straight 
in  front  of  her,  her  cheeks  burning,  her  dark  eyes 
blazing  with  a  strange  light. 

"Aretyou  ill,  Pauline?"  he  asked  solicitously — 
and  then  he  took  her  hand  in  his.  It  chilled  him. 
With  an  exclamation  of  concern,  he  pulled  the 
light  coat  she  wore  closely  about  her  throat  and 
buttoned  it. 

"You  should  be  more  careful,"  he  chided. 
"Where  will  all  your  brilliant  winter  go  if  you 
have  a  serious  illness  now?" 

They  rowed  over  the  little  bay  in  silence.  At 
the  foot  of  the  path  leading  to  Lyndhurst,  Ber- 
tram paused. 

"I  shall  take  Pauline  home,"  he  said  stiffly. 
"And,"  with  a  cold  glance  at  Helen,  "I  must  say 
good-by  to  you  now.  I  leave  on  the  8.40  train  for 
the  city." 

"Bather  unexpected,  isn't  it?"  asked  Stanhope 
dryly. 

"Yes.    I  got  word  to  go  this  morning." 


THE   BIRD    OF   PASSAGE  95 

"Well,  a  pleasant  trip  to  you !" 

"Thank  you.  It  will  surely  be  that."  He  said 
adieu  to  each  in  turn  and  then  he  and  Pauline 
turned  up  the  path. 

"Let  us  go  quickly,"  said  the  girl,  with  chatter- 
ing teeth.  "I  am  afraid  I  am  really  going  to  be 
ill,  Bertram.  Oh,  do  let  us  hurry  I" 

"Why  didn't  you  say  you  felt  so  badly?"  said 
Bertram,  with  perplexed  anxiety.  "Mother  will  be 
so  distressed  if  anything  happens  to  postpone  our 
leaving  Lyndhurst." 

But  Pauline  was  not  listening.  The  kindness 
of  Mrs.  Lackland  to  this  girl  was  a  misplaced  one. 
Her  brain  was  seething  with  thoughts  and  prob- 
lems, her  whole  nervous,  irritable  temperament 
tried  to  its  utmost  by  enforced  idleness.  She  spoke 
truly  when  she  said  that  work  was  her  vocation — 
work  of  any  kind.  The  discovery  that  Julian 
Stanhope  knew  of  her  unhappy  past,  her  connec- 
tions, the  very  fact  that  he  knew  even  now  where 
Muriel  was  and  what  she  might  be  suffering.  .  .  . 
Strangely  enough,  she  never  thought  of  her  as 
happy. 

With  some  perturbation  Mrs.  Lackland  went  to 
the  girl's  room  a  few  moments  after  she  came  in. 
Pauline  was  lying,  dressed,  upon  the  bed,  her  great 


96  THE    BIRD    OF    PASSAGE 

gray  eyes  like  stars  in  her  waxen  face.  She  put 
her  arms  around  Mrs.  Lackland's  neck  with  a 
childish  gesture. 

"He  knows  .  .  .  about  Muriel.  Julian  Stan- 
hope knows  about  Muriel.  But  I  would  not  let 
him  tell  me  because  ...  I  promised.  I  prom- 
ised you.  Won't  you  find  out  for  me,  Aunt  Laura  ? 
My  heart  is  breaking  for  news  of  her." 

Mrs.  Lackland  felt  her  eyes  grow  moist.  She 
kissed  the  girl  with  lips  that  trembled. 

"My  poor  child,"  she  said,  "why  did  you  not  ask  ? 
I  would  not  want  you  to  carry  your  promise  that 
far,  dear." 

"But  it  was — it  was  Penniston  who  sent 
the  message,"  she  faltered.  "So  I  could  not 
listen." 

"I  shall  send  a  note  to  Mr.  Stanhope  at  once 
and  inquire,"  said  Mrs.  Lackland  quickly.  "You 
must  be  taken  care  of  first." 

Helen,  a  little  depressed  and  upset,  was  not  at 
all  displeased  that  Julian  Stanhope  left  them  at 
the  big  gate,  so  that  she  might  go  off  alone  to  muse 
over  Bertram  Lackland's  sudden  and  unreasonable 
stubbornness.  Gregory  stood  on  the  terrace  say- 
ing good-by  to  Mrs.  Sigogne. 

"Then  you  will  not  dine  with  us  ?"  she  said  re- 


THE   BIRD    OF    PASSAGE  97 

gretfully.  "And  that  bad  boy  brother  of  yours — 
I  suppose  he  and  Helen  have  quarreled?  Foolish 
children !" 

"I  think  I  will  return  home — Pauline  looked 
quite  ill,  and  my  mother  is  very  much  wrapped  up 
in  her.  She  is  a  nice  little  girl,  though  so  very  dis- 
tant and  reserved.  She  seems  to  compel  one's  lik- 
ing." 

"Evidently  Julian  Stanhope  thinks  so,"  laughed 
Marion  Sigogne.  He  did  not  see  the  sudden  dila- 
tion of  the  pupils,  nor  catch  the  swiftly  inquiring 
glance  she  gave  him. 

"Julian  Stanhope !"  said  Gregory.  "You 
mean " 

"He  is  simply  head  over  heels  in  love  with  her." 

"Stanhope!  Why  .  .  .  Stanhope  .  .  .  that 
never  struck  me." 

Again  Marion  laughed. 

"Of  course  it  didn't — I  don't  think  even  Pauline 
has  discovered  it  yet." 

Gregory  said  good-night  later,  and  walked  home 
with  a  new  thought  in  his  brain.  Stanhope,  the 
cold,  proud  Stanhope,  to  marry  Pauline  Faulkner ! 
Well,  why  not?  He  was  wealthy,  well-connected 
according  to  all  reports,  ambitious;  he  knew  that 
he  had  been  mentioned  for  several  high  positions, 


98  THE   BIRD    OF   PASSAGE 

for  his  friends  seemed  to  be  many.  It  would  mean 
an  active  life  for  the  girl — the  life  she  loved. 

He  was  crossing  the  little  bridge  that  separated 
the  Lyndhurst  property  from  that  of  The  Pines 
when  he  saw  some  one  coming  toward  him.  It 
was  Bertram. 

"Where  in  the  world  are  you  going?"  he  ex- 
claimed. And  then,  with  a  sudden  thrill  of  anxi- 
ety: "Pauline " 

"I  am  going  to  The  Pines,"  said  Bertram.  "Was 
Stanhope  there  when  you  came  away?" 

"No,  he  did  not  go  in — he  left  before  I  did," 
said  Gregory.  "But  why?" 

In  a  few  words  Bertram  explained  the  situation. 
He  did  not  seem  at  all  relieved  to  discover  that  it 
would  not  be  necessary  to  complete  his  journey. 
Still,  his  pride  would  not  allow  him  to  pretend 
that  he  had  not  met  his  brother — even  for  the  sake 
of  another  glimpse  of  Helen. 

"Are  you  really  going  to  the  city  ?"  asked  Greg- 
ory, as  they  went  on  together  toward  Lyndhurst. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  Bertram  crossly.  "And  you 
know  the  reason  why,  too." 

"I  know !"  exclaimed  Gregory.  "You  and  Helen 
have  had  a  tiff,  I  suppose." 

"It  isn't  that.    But  she  thinks  she  can  annoy  me 


THE   BIRD    OF   PASSAGE  99 

by  flirting  with  any  one  she  pleases.  First  you, 
then  Stanhope !  I  suppose  she  considers  me  good 
game.  Well,  she'll  find  out !" 

"Oh,  you  boy,  don't  be  so  foolish.  You're  a 
pair  of  silly  geese,  the  two  of  you !" 

"H'm!  That's  good — after  encouraging  her — 
you  knew  she  was  doing  it  to  make  me  angry." 

"Doing  what  ?"  cried  Gregory,  in  bewilderment. 

"Why,  we've  been  planning  going  to  Squaw  Is- 
land every  day  for  the  past  week  that  I  might 
teach  her  shooting.  And  to-day  ..." 

Gregory  laughed  heartily. 

"Well,  just  as  much  as  I  taught  her  was  just  as 
much  as  she  intended  me  to  teach  her,"  he  said. 
"And  if  you  can't  read  through  all  those  tantaliz- 
ing, saucy  little  ways  of  hers,  she's  going  to  lead 
you  a  pretty  dance.  But  if  I  were  you,"  with  a 
sudden  smile,  "I  would  go  to  the  city  anyhow.  It 
may  do  more  good  than  you  imagine." 

The  physician  summoned  by  Mrs.  Lackland 
gave  no  definite  statement  as  to  Pauline's  condi- 
tion. It  was  impossible  to  tell  how  the  sickness 
would  develop.  He  seemed  to  fear  complications. 

His  fears  were  not  realized,  however.  Pauline's 
fine  constitution  triumphed  over  her  illness.  She 
was  allowed  to  come  downstairs  three  days  after- 


THE   BIRD    OF   PASSAGE 

ward.  Stanhope  had  been  unceasing  in  his  in- 
quiries, and  on  his  first  call  had  given  Mrs.  Lack- 
land Penniston's  message. 

"Muriel  is  well  and  happy  and  never  ceases  to 
pray  that  she  and  her  sister  will  soon  be  together." 

It  cheered  Pauline,  and  lifted  a  heavy  burden 
from  her  heart.  Of  her  father  there  was  no  word 
— if  Penniston  knew  his  whereabouts  he  had  not 
spoken  of  them.  Marion  was  there  every  day,  so 
winsome  and  lovable  that  she  became  dearer  than 
ever  to  Mrs.  Lackland,  who  was  quite  attached  to 
her.  She  knew  of  the  early  love  affair  between 
Gregory  and  Marion  the  girl.  Marion  the  woman 
was  infinitely  more  attractive,  and  she  would  have 
been  well  pleased  had  the  young  man  shown  any 
predilection  for  her  society. 

Things  were  not  going  smoothly  at  the  factories 
these  days.  Whether  it  was  Gregory's  home-com- 
ing, and  the  unsettled  state  into  which  his  appar- 
ent indifference  threw  the  men,  whether  it  was  the 
absence  of  Pauline,  not  alone  from  the  factories, 
but  from  the  town  itself,  Mrs.  Lackland  did  not 
know.  At  any  rate,  there  were  rumors  of  disaffec- 
tion among  the  thousands  of  employees.  Mr.  Dor- 
ing  had  been  threatened  on  several  occasions, 
though  as  yet  there  had  been  no  act  of  violence. 


THE   BIRD    OF   PASSAGE  101 

She  had  received  the  written  complaints  from  the 
committee,  but  had  dismissed  them  when  Boring 
explained  the  situation  to  her,  and  the  discharge 
of  Williamson  and  the  three  others  who  had  called 
on  her  followed  immediately,  for  Doring  insisted 
that  he  must  maintain  discipline.  She  could  feel 
that  trouble  was  impending,  and  in  some  way  con- 
nected Gregory  with  it.  Well!  She  would  show 
him  that  she  was  mistress  still,  and  that  her 
achievements  in  the  business  world  had  not  been 
the  work  of  chance. 

But  a  new  element  was  at  work — a  lawless  ele- 
ment, that  had  never  been  in  evidence  before. 
Doring  felt  it,  and  Wilson,  the  manager  of  the 
West  Shore  factory.  If  Gregory  knew  this  he  said 
nothing  about  it,  but  went  on  his  way  serenely. 
He  felt  that  it  would  be  useless  to  appeal  to  his 
mother — either  to  her  common  sense  or  her  senti- 
ment. She  must  be  taught  by  others,  since  she 
would  not  be  advised  by  him. 

Father  Richards,  the  priest,  who  had  his  finger 
on  the  pulse  of  his  people,  was  the  most  worried 
of  all.  He  could  not  trace  the  trouble,  though  he 
tried  to.  Pauline  had  been  one  from  whom  he 
hoped  much,  until  she  proved  to  him  what  little 
influence  she  had  with  Mrs.  Lackland.  Then  he, 


102  THE   BIRD    OF   PASSAGE 

too,  depended  on  Gregory,  but  the  young  man  did 
nothing.  Shrugged  his  shoulders  only — would  saj 
nothing  against  or  for  conditions. 

When  Pauline  was  allowed  downstairs,  Julian 
Stanhope  came  in  to  see  her.  He  had  pleaded 
strongly  for  a  personal  interview,  as  he  was  going 
away.  Although  her  mind  had  been  set  at  rest  in 
regard  to  her  sister  through  this  man,  the  girl 
could  not  overcome  her  dislike  for  him.  Nor  could 
she  analyze  her  dislike. 

"I  have  a  very  fine  post  given  to  me,"  he  began, 
"in  the  diplomatic  corps.  An  entirely  unexpected 
honor.  I  do  not  think  the  States  will  see  much 
of  me  for  the  next  few  years." 

He  seemed  elated.  She  smiled  and  congratu- 
lated him.  He  looked  at  her  penetratingly. 

"America  does  not  agree  with  you,  Pauline,"  he 
said  then.  "Will  you  leave  it — with  me?  We 
can  be  married  very  quietly — no  one  will  be  any 
the  wiser  save  our  own  immediate  friends — and 
you — you  will  have  placed  an  effectual  barrier  be- 
tween yourself  and — some  one  whom  you  dread." 

Her  face  grew  very  white.  It  had  been  white 
before,  but  now  it  became  ghastly. 

"Oh,  please!"  she  said.  "Why — we  are 
strangers !" 


THE    BIRD    OF   PASSAGE  103 

"No,"  he  answered,  and  there  was  a  flash  of  odd 
excitement  on  his  face.  "We  are  not  strangers, 
Pauline.  And  I  love  you.  I  love  you  dearly.  I 
can  make  you  happy." 

"I  do  not  love  you,"  she  answered  faintly.  "And 
even  if  I  did — I  have  no  right  to  burden  any  one 
with  the  cloud  that  is  hanging  over  me.  You  are 
very,  very  courageous,  Mr.  Stanhope,  to  wish  to 
marry  one  of  whom  you  know  so  little." 

"I  shall  risk  all  that,"  he  said.  "I  do  not  want 
to  excite  you,  but  you  must  know  the  truth  some 
time.  Pauline,  Penniston  is  here." 

"Penniston  is  here!    In  America!" 

"Yes — not  alone  to  try  to  see  you,  but  follow- 
ing some  one  very  near  to  you." 

"My  father !"  she  gasped. 

He  was  alarmed  then.  He  sprang  to  her  side 
and  took  her  trembling  hands  in  his. 

"Pauline,  I  have  taken  care  of  that.  He  is  safe 
— he  will  be  safe.  I  have  sent  him  away — your 
father  is  awaiting  us.  He  will  welcome  us  gladly. 
I  have  found  him  a  safe  refuge." 

The  girl's  head  was  throbbing  madly. 

"Please,"  she  began,  in  a  broken  tone,  "I  must 
not  let  you  go  any  farther,  Mr.  Stanhope.  I  do 
not  care  for  you —  Oh,  I  couldn't  marry  you! 


104  TfljE?   BIRD    OF   PASSAGE 

Please,  please  do  not  be  offended,  but —  I  couldn't 
marry  any  one.  Marriage  is  not  for  me !" 

He  sat  looking  at  her  a  moment  gently.  He 
had  gone  too  far,  he  thought,  but  it  was  a  thing 
that  had  to  be  done  quickly. 

"So  be  it,  then,"  he  said,  lifting  her  hand  to  his 
lips.  "I  will  go  without  you.  But,  Pauline,  I 
will  come  back  again." 

A  sense  of  suffocation  overpowered  her.  She 
looked  at  him,  his  eyes  seemed  to  pierce  her  through 
and  through ;  his  nervous  fingers  clasped  about  her 
hand,  seemed  to  burn  her.  He  rose,  still  with  his 
gaze  fixed  upon  her — on  the  pale  face,  the  waxen 
lids,  the  small  mouth,  faintly  pink  and  very  child- 
ish and  young.  Then  he  dropped  the  hand  he  held 
and  left  the  room.  The  girl  lay  back  quietly  in  the 
big  chair.  She  was  weak  and  exhausted.  Pres- 
ently, when  she  opened  her  eyes,  she  saw  that 
Gregory  had  come  in.  He  had  taken  a  book  and 
seated  himself  in  the  window  near  her. 

"What  has  that  fellow  been  saying  to  you  ?"  he 
asked  roughly.  "You  are  as  pale  as  a  ghost. 
Hasn't  he  any  sense?" 

She  smiled  weakly. 

"None.    Absolutely  none." 

"I  suppose  you'll  marry  him  ?" 


THE   BIRD    OF   PASSAGE  105 

"And  if  I  do?"  with  a  sudden  flash  of  spirit. 
"Does  that  concern  you  ?" 

"No,"  he  said,  slowly,  after  a  moment.  "I  have 
never  given  you  any  sympathy,  never  shown 
even  friendliness  toward  you,  Pauline.  I  am  noth- 
ing to  you,  though  we  are  supposed  to  be  relatives. 
But  that  man — that  man  is  not  worthy  of 
you." 

The  deep  feeling  in  his  tones  touched  her. 

"I  shall  not  marry  him,  Gregory.  Love,  hap- 
piness, home  are  not  for  me.  I  relinquished  hope 
of  them  long  ago.  I  am  resting  my  broken  wings 
here  just  for  a  little  while,  and  then  I  shall  fly  off 
again  somewhere,  anywhere  to  the  work  that  is 
mine." 

"Your  work,  Pauline?  Not  the  old  life,  surely?" 

"I  am  through  with  that  forever,  Gregory.  It  was 
not  my  fault.  Circumstances  forced  me  into  those 
channels.  Oh,  the  peace  that  girl  must  know  who 
is  sheltered  under  her  mother's  roof,  who  kneels  be- 
side her  mother  and  father  in  prayer,  whose  life  is 
spent  securely  within  the  folds  of  our  dear  Church, 
bound  lovingly  by  its  tenets  and  its  wise  restric- 
tions !  My  mother  taught  us  secretly,  and  at  night. 
We  learned  our  few  prayers  secretly.  We  attended 
no  Christian  school,  and  we  listened  constantly  to 


106  THE   BIRD    OF   PASSAGE 

the  godless  talk  of  the  godless  men  and  women 
who  were  our  intimates !  Thank  God,  I  saw  the  tri- 
umph of  faith  in  her  death — when  that  priest 
came,  and  thrust  aside  all  barriers  to  reach  her,  de- 
fying them  to  deny  him  admittance  to  one  who 
called  upon  him  for  the  last  sacred  rites !  I  led  him 
to  her  side — and  that  one  moment — the  look  on  her 
face  when  she  glanced  up  and  saw  him,  husband, 
children,  all  forgotten — that  moment  made  me  a 
true  Catholic  forever." 

"Don't,  Pauline,  don't,  dear  child  I"  The  tears 
were  streaming  down  her  face,  the  tears  were  in  his 
eyes. 

"I  must,"  she  said.  "I  do  not  know  how  long 
I  can  stay  here,  and  you,  Gregory,  must  under- 
stand. In  that  moment  I  received  a  new  baptism — 
that  of  desire,  and  when  all  else  failed  me  I  went 
to  that  good  priest.  But  before  he  could  help  me 
your  mother  came.  I  took  her  coming  as  a  sign 
from  God,  and  I  was  obedient,  only  wanting  to 
know  God's  will.  I  came  here,  but  months  have 
passed,  and  my  work  is  slipping  from  me.  I  can 
not  be  idle,  Gregory.  I  can  not  be  a  butterfly.  I 
can  not  go  to  the  city  and  enjoy  myself  as  your  dear 
mother  would  want  me  to.  I  can  not.  But  I  say 
nothing.  For  I  am  waiting." 


THE   BIRD    OF   PASSAGE  107 

"Then  wait  a  while  longer — just  a  little  while 
longer,"  he  said  deeply  moved.  "Wait  until  my 
work  begins,  Pauline,  and  perhaps  you  will  find 
that  yours  is  here,  after  all." 


CHAPTER  IX 

HELEN  MAKES  A  PROMISE 

BERTRAM  had  spent  a  trying  week.  Never,  in 
all  his  twenty-one  years,  had  seven  days  gone  so 
slowly.  He  had  fulfilled  several  commissions  for 
his  mother,  and  had  gone  over  the  house  which  was 
now  awaiting  their  occupancy.  He  had  one  or  two 
suggestions  to  make,  but  no  fault  to  find,  and  he 
wrote  home  enthusiastically,  telling  his  mother 
that  she  would  be  more  than  pleased  with  the  way 
her  orders  had  been  carried  out.  He  went  to  the 
theater  almost  every  evening  and  called  on  several 
of  his  chums.  But  he  took  no  interest  in  any- 
thing, to  his  own  disgust.  And  finally  the  week 
was  at  an  end,  and  he  returned  to  Lyndhurst. 

Every  one  was  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  him. 
Light-hearted  and  gay,  he  unconsciously  helped 
the  other  members  of  his  household,  all  weighed 
down  with  more  serious  cares.  He  was  unusually 
affectionate  with  his  mother,  noticing  for  the  first 
time  that  she  seemed  worried,  and  that  she  ex- 
cused herself  right  after  dinner  to  go  to  her  office, 
where  she  and  Mr.  Sands  remained  for  the  even- 
ing. 

108 


HELEN   MAKES   A    PROMISE  109 

"Is  there  any  truth  in  the  rumor  that  there  is 
trouble  at  the  factories  ?"  he  asked  Gregory.  Greg- 
ory shook  his  head. 

"Mother  has  said  nothing,"  he  answered. 

"Had  you  been  home  a  little  earlier  you 
would  have  met  Mrs.  Sigogne  and  Helen,"  put  in 
Pauline  gently.  "They  inquired  for  you  particu- 
larly." 

"Oh!  Are  they  well?"  asked  Bertram,  with  a 
fine  assumption  of  carelessness,  which  made  Greg- 
ory laugh  outright. 

"They  are  well,"  answered  Pauline,  seriously. 
"But  it  seemed  to  me  that  Helen  looked  a  little 
down-hearted." 

"Oh !  We  told  her  Bertram  was  coming  home," 
said  Gregory  teasingly. 

***** 

Helen  Sigogne  sat  under  her  favorite  oak  tree, 
watching  the  swans  floating  lazily  on  the  bosom  of 
the  miniature  lake  before  her.  The  book  she  had 
been  reading  lay  open  on  her  lap,  and  her  soft 
cheek  rested  on  one  upturned  palm.  She  was  too 
deeply  interested  to  hear  the  sound  of  a  horse's 
roofs  on  the  road  outside,  although  she  looked  to- 
ward the  avenue  of  pines  as  the  rider  advanced  be- 
tween them.  He  saw  her,  but  kept  on  to  give  his 


110  HELEN   MAKES   A   PROMISE 

horse  to  the  servant,  and  then  crossed  the  lawn  to 
her  side. 

Bertram  had  been  calculating  very  carefully 
what  he  meant  to  say  to  the  girl,  but  the  sight  of 
her  filled  him  with  such  pleasure  that  thoughts 
and  words  took  wings. 

"Is  Mrs.  Sigogne  at  home?"  he  inquired  very 
stiffly  and  politely. 

Helen  answered  just  as  politely. 

"No.  My  mother  has  gone  out  and  will  not  be 
back  before  dinner.  Have  you  a  message  for  her  ?" 

"Oh,  no !    I  simply  called.    I  hope  she  is  well  ?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you.  How  is  Pauline?  She 
seemed  much  better  yesterday." 

"When  you  were  kind  enough  to  ask  for  me — " 
he  began. 

"Oh,  did  we?"  with  an  air  of  bored  interest. 
"Yes  .  .  .  perhaps  we  were  speaking  of  you." 

The  young  man  flared  up  into  a  mighty  rage. 

"I  wish  I  had  stayed  home,"  he  said  doggedly. 

"Why !    Didn't  you  like  the  city  ?"  innocently. 

"Oh !    The  city !    Yes.    I'm  going  back  to  it." 

"So  soon?" 

"Helen,  you  are  exasperating!  Or  are  you  so 
heartless  that  you  have  never  asked  yourself  why 
I  kept  away  from  The  Pines  for  a  whole,  week  ?" 


HELEN   MAKES   A    PROMISE  111 

"A  whole  week?"  sweetly.  "Is  it  really  that 
long?  How  time  flies!" 

Bertram  glanced  at  her.  He  turned  on  his  heel 
as  if  to  leave,  but  thought  better  of  it. 

"Why  have  you  changed  so  toward  me?"  he 
asked.  "It  may  be  that  you  have  tired  of  me  al- 
together and  you  are  treating  me  like  this  to  get 
rid  of  me." 

She  fixed  her  lovely  eyes  upon  him. 

'Treating  you  like  what?"  she  demanded.  "I 
have  done  nothing.  You  take  it  into  your  head 
to  grow  angry  with  me — goodness  knows  why, 
and  then  expect  me  to  plead  with  you  not  to  be 
angry?" 

"You  are  cruel — you  deliberately  flirt  with 
Gregory  to  upset  me,  and  then  you  will  hardly 
notice  me.  You  talk  to  and  smile  at  that  Stan- 
hope fellow  and  completely  ignore  me !  Why,  you 
simply  drove  me  frantic — and  then  your  indiffer- 
ence. .  .  .  You  actually  do  not  care  whether  I 
stay  here  or  go  back  to  the  city !  It  is  all  the  same 
to  you." 

"Don't  be  nonsensical,"  she  said.  "You  know 
well  that  you  were  in  the  wrong." 

"Wrong  or  not,  I  have  never  spent  a  more  mis- 
erable week." 


1<£  HELEN    MAKES   A    PROMISE 

"I  am  very  glad  of  it,"  she  said.  "It  will  teach 
you  to  have  some  sense  next  time — and  Bertram, 
you  do,  honestly,  need  sense." 

"My  dear  girl,  what  little  sense  I  have  simply 
vanishes  when  you  get  angry  at  me." 

"But  I  wasn't  angry  at  you.    I  was  only  vexed." 

"Then  we  are  friends  again  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  tender  eyes.  She  blushed, 
and  made  room  beside  her  on  the  bench. 

"I  shall  be  twenty-two  next  month,"  he  said, 
"and  I  want  you  to  decide  whether  I  shall  be  the 
happiest  or  the  most  miserable  man  in  the  uni- 
verse. On  that  day,  my  darling,  you  must  allow 
me  to  announce  our  engagement." 

"Oh!"  said  Helen.  "Mother  will  never  permit 
that.  I  am  not  eighteen  yet,  Bertram." 

"What  obstacle  is  that  when  we  love  each 
other?" 

"Oh,  do  we  ?"  with  a  serene  air.  "You  have  not 
said  so — nor  have  I." 

"Helen,  you  know  I  love  you!" 

"I  think  you  think  you  love  me,"  she  answered. 
"But  you  must  prove  it." 

"And  how?"  seriously.    "Oh,  how?" 

"Why,"  she  said,  "I  could  never  marry  an  idler, 
a  drone!  You  will  be  twenty-two  next  month, 


HELEN   MAKES   A   PROMISE  113 

Bertram  Lackland,  and  you  have  never  done  a 
day's  work  in  your  life." 

He  looked  at  her  questioningly. 

"I  don't  believe  in  that,  Bertram.  No  man  can 
be  happy  if  he  isn't  busy.  Idleness  is  all  very  well, 
for  a  short  while,  but  one  must  have  an  aim  in  life. 
You  shoot,  play  billiards,  and  tennis,  cards  occa- 
sionally, go  horseback  riding,  read  a  good  deal  and 
spend  a  lot  of  time  talking  about  the  equality  of 
the  human  race !  That's  no  life  for  a  healthy,  ac- 
tive man  of  twenty-two !" 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do,  Helen  ?" 

"I  want  you  to  show  that  you  can  do  your 
share  in  the  world.  Mother  says  that  Gregory 
will  not  stay  here,  that  he  has  big  schemes  in  view, 
that  he  will  go  into  politics.  So  you  must  go  into 
business.  Your  mother's  business,  if  she'll  allow 
it,  and  if  she  doesn't,  into  something  of  your 
own." 

"That  is  sound  advice,  Helen.  What  business 
would  you  suggest?" 

"What  business  are  you  fitted  for?" 

He  pondered  a  moment,  carefully  considering. 
Then  the  question  came  home  to  him  with  a  keen 
sense  of  shame. 

"None,"  he  admitted.    The  girl  looked  at  him, 


114  HELEN    MAKES   A    PROMISE 

the  wisdom  that  is  ever  the  portion  of  the  woman 
in  her  glance. 

"You  are  dependent  on  your  mother  for  every- 
thing,  you  have  no  settled  employment  beyond 
amusement,  you  are  fitted  for  no  business — and 
yet  you  want  me  to  marry  you!" 

The  young  man  flushed  hotly. 

"You  are  right/'  he  said.  "I  see  my  position, 
and  I  am  glad  you  opened  my  eyes  to  it.  Helen, 
I  never  realized  what  a  careless,  miserable  life  i 
was  leading  before.  But  I  shall  change  it — and 
I  will  ask  you  again  to  marry  me  when  I  have 
something  beside  a  pair  of  useless,  idle  hands  to 
offer  you.  And,"  he  added,  in  a  moved  tone,  "you 
will  realize  that  all  I  try  to  do  or  be,  whether  I 
succeed  or  fail,  will  be  because  I  love  you  with  all 
my  heart.  Do  you  care  for  me,  Helen?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  gently.  "Of  course  I  care 
for  you,  Bertram." 

They  sat  for  an  hour  discussing  ways  and 
schemes,  and  finally  the  young  man  left  her  with 
a  light  heart.  Gregory  was  outdoors,  smoking, 
when  he  reached  the  house.  He  went  up  to  him 
with  outstretched  hands. 

"Gregory,  Gregory !"  he  said.  "I  am  so  happy 
that  I  could  not  begin  to  tell  you  of  it!  Helen 


HELEN    MAKES    A    PROMISE  115 

loves  me,  and  I  must  get  out  and  go  into  business 
and  become  self-supporting  and  all  that,  and  then 
we  are  going  to  be  married !  Isn't  that  a  grand 
prospect  ?" 

Gregory  threw  away  his  cigar. 

"I  should  say  so,"  he  answered,  laughing.  "My 
congratulations!  And  how  about  the  theories  to 
which  you  were  to  devote  your  life?" 

"Oh,  I  have  something  serious  on  hand  now/' 
said  Bertram.  "I  have  no  more  time  to  waste  on 
social  problems.  Leave  that  to  such  men  as  Stan- 
hope and  his  kind.  Where  is  mother?" 

"Mr.  Stanhope  himself  is  with  her,"  said  Greg- 
ory dryly.  "Perhaps  advocating  the  views  which 
you  have  just  discarded." 

"And  where  is  Pauline?" 

"About  the  grounds,  I  believe.  She  went  off 
toward  the  bay  some  fifteen  minutes  since — but  if 
I  were  you  I  would  see  mother  first." 

Just  then  Mrs.  Lackland  appeared  at  the  window 
behind  them. 

"Is  that  you,  Bertram?  Is  that  your  horse 
there?" 

"Yes,  mother — I  am  just  taking  him  to  the 
stables." 

"I  wish  you  would  not  take  him  there — I  have 


116  HELEN    MAKES   A    PROMISE 

an  important  message  to  send  to  Mr.  Doring.  Will 
you  deliver  it?" 

"Why,  of  course." 

"He  is  to  meet  Mr.  Wilson  and  Judge  Master- 
son  here  this  evening  at  eight  o'clock  without  fail. 
And,  Bertram?" 

"Yes?" 

"If  you  could  manage  to  get  the  message  to 
him  without  being  overheard.  I  daresay  they  will 
suspect  something,  but  be  as  circumspect  as  pos- 
sible." 

Gregory  Lackland  stood  up,  straight  and  tall 
and  proud,  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  mother.  Bertram 
went  down  the  steps  and  sprang  on  his  horse's 
back. 

"Is  this  the  use  to  which  you  mean  to  put 
your  sons  always — you  give  them  the  role  of 
errand  boys?  Well  I  finish  Mrs.  Sigogne's 
affairs  to-morrow.  After  that  I  shall  make  a 
change." 

They  measured  glances  an  instant,  but  Greg- 
ory's eyes  were  hard  and  his  lips  set  in  determined 
curves. 

"You  shall  not  set  me  aside  for  such  men  as 
Wilson  or  Doring,"  he  said  in  a  low,  even  tone. 
"You  shall  not  belittle  my  ability  and  lower  my 


HELEN   MAKES   A   PROMISE  117 

self-esteem.  I  love  and  respect  you,  mother,  but 
in  justice  to  myself  I  shall  have  to  act  as  my  con- 
science dictates." 

"I  did  place  you.  You  could  have  made  some- 
thing— anything  of  yourself  had  you  stayed " 

"Abroad!  Yes!  An  alien!  Doing  work  that 
any  alien  could  do — that  the  man  who  was  my  sub- 
ordinate in  the  office  does  equally  as  well.  I  came 
home  because  my  place  is  home — here.  This  is 
my  rightful  place.  This  is  the  place  my  father 
would  have  given  me.  I  do  not  ask  it,  save  of  your 
own  free  will — and  you  are  not  disposed  to  give 
it.  Do  not  blame  me,  therefore,  for  anything  I 
find  myself  forced  to  do." 

"At  least  we  understand  each  other,"  she  said, 
with  white  lips.  "I  suppose  I  should  be  thankful 
for  that  much." 

"At  least,  mother,  when  you  think  it  over  you 
will  see  that  I  am  right.  I  told  you  some  time 
ago  that  I  would  decide  on  a  plan  in  the  near  fu- 
ture. Your  affairs  are  in  sore  straits.  You  have 
no  idea  what  acts  reckless  men  will  commit.  Per- 
haps you  think  that  I  am  ignorant?  Why,  every 
man  in  that  factory — in  both  those  factories — 
knows  that  you  mean  to  declare  a  lockout.  You 
may  not  know  what  that  means.  I  do.  The  date 


118  HELEN    MAKES   A    PROMISE 

will  barely  be  decided  to-night,  when  they  will  find 
it  out  .  .  ." 

"So !"  she  said.  "Then  there  is  a  traitor  in  my 
own  household!  I  have  long  suspected  it." 

She  gave  him  a  cold  glance  and  turned  away. 
Gregory  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  back 
to  his  chair. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  MESSAGE 

JULIAN  STANHOPE  had  come  to  Lyndhurst  to 
ask  Pauline  Faulkner's  hand  in  marriage  once 
more.  This  time  he  laid  his  proposition  before 
Mrs.  Lackland  and  explained  his  prospects.  She 
listened  with  something  like  pleasure — at  least  this 
was  the  solution  of  one  difficulty.  She  could  see 
how  very  little  Pauline  enjoyed  the  prospect  of 
leaving  Lyndhurst,  and  she,  herself,  harassed  on 
every  side,  had  small  taste  for  frivolity.  If  Paul- 
ine could  really  care  for  Julian  Stanhope  it  would 
be  a  good  thing.  True,  she  had  waived  the  thought 
aside  when  Marion  Sigogne  spoke  of  it  before,  but 
then  she  had  felt  that  Pauline  and  he  were  an- 
tagonistic. She  did  not  want  to  force  her  in  any 
way,  but  if  the  girl  were  not  indifferent  .  .  . 

So,  somewhat  abstractedly,  for  her  own  affairs 
weighed  upon  her,  she  listened  to  the  man.  She 
had  not  known  him  long.  Only  a  few  months.  He 
had  come  to  her  as  a  student  of  sociology  seeking 
information,  which  she,  the  employer  of  men,  could 

give  him.    She  gave  freely.    He  was  essentially  of 
119 


120  A    MESSAGE 

the  classes — his  views  were  hers,  a  thing  which 
pleased  her  greatly.  He  was  not  like  Gregory,  con- 
tinually grumbling.  He  had  so  purposely  avoided 
meeting  Pauline  that  she  took  him  to  be  a  woman- 
hater  as  well,  until  the  night  when  he  had  intro- 
duced himself  into  her  family  circle  with  a  message 
from  Mrs.  Sigogne.  He  had  met  Mrs.  Sigogne  at  the 
Springs,  and  she  was  loud  in  her  praise  of  him. 
He  was  so  agreeably  entertaining  that  he  was  made 
a  welcome  guest  everywhere.  Possibly  the  only  one 
,  who  disliked  him  was  old  Judge  Masterson. 

Now,  with  Gregory's  declaration  in  her  ears, 
and  the  suspicion  filtering  through  her  brain  that 
it  was  Pauline,  perhaps,  who  had  been  in  secret 
communication  with  those  outside  her  home,  Mrs. 
Lackland  went  back  to  where  Julian  Stanhope 
awaited  her. 

"You  can  tell  my  niece,"  she  said,  giving 
her  the  title  of  relationship  which  she  had  always 
accorded  her  in  conversing  with  strangers,  "that 
you  have  my  consent  to  address  her,  and  that  if 
she  likes  you  I  will  be  only  too  glad  to  see  you  both 
married.  I,  in  fact,  think  it  a  good  arrangement. 
The  girl  is  high-strung  and  nervous.  You  will 
have  to  be  kind  and  forbearing — but  her  heart  is 
pure  gold." 


A    ME8SA&E  121 

"I  realize  that,"  he  said,  rising.  "I  thank  you 
for  your  encouragement — and  I  feel  that  she  is 
not  indifferent.  I  will  do  my  best  to  make  her 
happy." 

He  met  Pauline  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace  steps. 
He  said  something  in  a  tone  too  low  for  Gregory, 
still  seated  above  them,  to  hear,  and  then  she  turned 
with  him  and  they  walked  side  by  side  to  the  gate. 
Gregory  did  not  wait  for  her  return,  but  got  up 
and  went  in.  He  was  in  a  state  of  great  excite- 
ment himself,  raging  under  a  sense  of  injustice 
and  hot  anger.  A  thousand  rash  schemes  presented 
themselves,  but  he  had  common  sense  enough  to 
hold  his  anger  down  with  a  firm  hand.  He  was 
reading  in  the  library  an  hour  later  when  Bertram 
came  in  and  flung  himself  into  a  chair  opposite 
him. 

"Did  you  reach  Doring  all  right?"  asked  his 
brother. 

"Yes — I  gave  him  the  message.  He  seemed 
glad." 

"Of  course  he  did,"  said  Gregory,  with  sarcasm. 
"He  is  not  endangering  his  property." 

"And  not  ours  either,"  said  Bertram,  with  a 
searching  glance  at  his  brother. 

"So  it  appears,"  answered  Gregory. 


122  A    MESSAGE 

"Why  do  you  put  up  with  it  ?"  began  the  young 
man.  "What  chance  have  I  if  you  are  indifferent  ?" 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  asked  Gregory 
laying  his  book  down  on  the  table. 

"Kick!  Kick  good  and  strong.  It  isn't  fair 
to  us !" 

"Mother  would  thank  Helen  for  her  ability  to 
rouse  your  ambition!"  said  Gregory  with  a  smile. 
"But  wait,  Bertram.  There  may  be  a  change  very 
soon.  I  have  seen  it  coming  a  long  while,  and 
when  it  comes  you  and  I  must  be  ready  for  it. 
There  is  more  underneath  all  this  than  many  sus- 
pect. Father  Richards  does,  and  he  has  told  me." 

The  brothers  sat  talking  quietly  for  a  long  while. 
Gregory  realized  that  Helen's  plain-speaking  had 
aroused  the  boy's  manhood,  and  that  even  in  so 
short  a  time  he  was  looking  at  life  from  a  different 
viewpoint.  At  last  they  heard  their  mother's 
voice  in  the  hall. 

"Have  you  seen  Miss  Faulkner?"  she  asked  the 
servant. 

"Yes,  madam.    She  came  in  with  Mr.  Bertram." 

"And  Mr.  Stanhope " 

"Mr.  Stanhope  went  a  good  while  ago." 

Mrs.  Lackland  entered  the  library. 

"You  are  here,  Bertram?    Where  is  Pauline?" 


A    MESSAGE  123 

"She  was  going  to  her  own  room,  mother,  when 
I  saw  her  last." 

"Was  Mr.  Stanhope  with  her  when  you  met 
her?" 

"No — I  met  Mr.  Stanhope  on  the  road.  He  said 
good-by  to  me — told  me  it  was  not  likely  he  would 
see  me  again  before  he  left." 

Mrs.  Lackland  sat  down  heavily  in  the  nearest 
chair. 

"Then  that  girl  has  refused  him !"  she  said. 

Gregory  had  not  spoken.  Now  his  mother  ad- 
dressed him  directly. 

"I  wish  you  would  see  her — she  will  listen  to 
you.  She  should  not  let  any  of  her  nonsensical 
notions  stand  in  the  way  of  this  marriage.  Try 
to  persuade " 

"I  have  already  given  her  my  opinion,  mother," 
answered  Gregory  gently. 

"And  you  said " 

"That  the  man  is  not  worthy  of  her.  I  do  not 
think  he  is  a  good  man." 

Stupefaction  rendered  Mrs.  Lackland  speech- 
less. She  stared  at  her  eldest  son  with  parted 
lips. 

"He  proposed  to  her  some  days  ago — the  first 
day  she  came  downstairs." 


124  A   MESSAGE 

"How  well  I  am  acquainted  with  the  happenings 
of  my  household,"  said  Mrs.  Lackland  in  a  bitter 
tone.  "No  wonder  it  is  easy  for  all  my  intimate 
affairs  to  get  abroad.  As  for  Pauline,"  and  her 
voice  quivered,  "she  shall  give  me  some  explana- 
tion." 

"Would  you  like  your  own  daughter  to  marry 
that  man  ?"  interrupted  Gregory. 

She  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Why  do  you  not  tell  me  now  that  you  propose 
to  marry  her  yourself?"  she  said  stormily,  and 
hurried  from  the  room.  Gregory  looked  at  Ber- 
tram. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

Bertram  said  nothing.  There  was  an  anxious 
line  between  his  eyebrows.  He  did  not  tell  Greg- 
ory an  incident  that  had  happened  to  him  on  the 
homeward  drive,  and  yet  it  worried  him  consid- 
erably. Just  as  he  struck  the  outskirts  of  the 
town,  and  the  road  that  led  to  Lyndhurst,  a  man 
had  appeared  from  the  thick  underbrush  and  held 
up  his  hand  to  command  attention.  He  said  noth- 
ing— only  gave  Bertram  a  white  envelope  and  dis- 
appeared. Looking  at  it,  he  saw  that  it  was  ad- 
dressed to  Pauline. 

At  first,  the  young  man  was  greatly  perplexed. 


A    MESSAGE  125 

He  thought  of  tearing  it  up,  of  calling  after  the 
man,  who  surely  could  not  have  gone  far,  and  re- 
turning it.  But  he  did  neither  of  these  things, 
and  was  still  in  doubt  when  he  met  Pauline  herself 
at  the  foot  of  the  terrace  steps.  This  decided  him, 
and  he  gave  her  the  note  without  a  word. 

"From  whom?"  she  asked. 

"I  do  not  know,  Pauline,"  he  answered. 

She  crumpled  it  tightly  in  her  hand  and  went 
on  up  the  stairs  to  her  room.  And  in  the  center 
of  the  apartment  she  looked  at  the  superscription. 
It  was  meant  for  her  then.  She  threw  herself 
upon  her  knees  beside  the  bed. 

"Give  me  strength,  0  God,  to  face  whatever  trial 
is  before  me,  and  to  bear  it  for  Thy  sake,"  she 
whispered.  "Make  the  way  plain  to  me,  that  I  may 
not  falter  in  it,  let  the  cost  be  what  it  will." 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  opened  the  envelope. 

"I  do  not  know  if  you  will  ever  read  these  lines," 
began  the  writer.  "But  whether  you  do  or  not 
1  shall  contrive  to  see  you.  I  will  wait  for  you 
to-morrow  night  (Wednesday)  outside  the  Lynd- 
hurst  gates.  I  shall  wait  from  ten  until  midnight, 
and  then  if  you  do  not  come  I  shall  find  means  to 
see  you  amid  your  wealthy  and  influential  friends. 


126  A    MESSAGE 

If  there  is  one  among  them  whose  safety  you  prize, 
I  would  counsel  you  not  to  disappoint  me. 

"PENNISTON." 

Half-fainting,  the  girl  sat  in  her  chair,  the  let- 
ter falling  from  her  nerveless  fingers  to  the  floor. 
Presently  two  tears  forced  themselves  from  under 
her  half -closed  lids,  and  ran  down  her  pale  cheeks. 
What  could  she  do  ?  What  in  God's  name  was  she 
to  do?  Surely,  surely,  God  must  give  her  some 
sign  now ! 

To-morrow  night !  Wednesday !  Why,  that  was 
to-night!  She  had  no  time  to  think,  no  time  to 
ponder,  no  one  to  take  into  her  confidence.  She 
must  decide  for  herself.  She  could  not  even  reach 
Father  Eichards — she  could  not  go  into  the  town 
without  creating  comment,  inquiry.  Oh,  if  she 
dared  but  tell  Gregory — and  then  her  heart  con- 
tracted. Gregory !  "If  there  is  one  among  them 
whose  safety  you  prize !"  Oh,  she  prized  his  safety 
above  her  own,  and  for  that  safety's  sake,  must  try 
to  discover  what  this  man's  bold  schemes  were. 
What  was  he  doing  at  Lyndhurst?  Had  she 
brought  him  here?  Was  it  her  presence  that  had 
involved  these  people  in  such  danger?  For  if  he 
had  come  seeking  her,  what  more  natural  than  that 


A    MESSAGE  127 

he  should  work  mischief  to  those  who  had  be- 
friended her? 

She  glanced  at  the  clock  as  a  step  sounded  on 
the  stairs  without.  It  was  Mrs.  Lackland  coming 
up  to  dress  for  dinner.  Their  rooms  adjoined, 
the  door  between  stood  open.  Pauline  picked  up 
the  fallen  note  quickly  and  had  barely  hidden  it 
when  Mrs.  Lackland  entered  the  room. 

"Mr.  Stanhope  was  talking  to  you  a  short  while 
since  ?" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Laura,"  said  the  girl  mechanically. 

"Gregory  tells  me  fhat  he  proposed  to  you  some 
days  ago.  If  that  is  true,  don't  you  think  that  you 
should  have  confided  in  me?" 

"I — I  meant  to,"  stammered  the  girl.  "But — I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  speak  of  it." 

"He  is  an  honorable  man,  a  wealthy  man,  too, 
I  believe,"  went  on  Mrs.  Lackland.  She  marveled 
a  little  at  the  girl's  self-restraint — she  was  wont 
to  fly  into  a  passion  over  less  catechising.  "You 
would  do  well  if  you  could  think  of  him." 

"But  I  can  not,  I  can  not,"  she  said  miserably. 

"That  settles  it,  then,  I  presume,"  returned  the 
older  lady  in  a  cold  voice.  "I  regret  it  very  much." 
She  turned  into  her  room  again,  but  paused  on  the 
threshold.  "I  do  not  want  you  to  look  upon  this 


128  A    MESSAGE 

as  an  accusation,  Pauline,  but  I  heard  something 
this  afternoon  that  hurt  me  sorely.  Some  one  in 
this  house  is  communicating  with  the  factory  peo- 
ple. I  am  told  my  plans  are  given  out  almost  within 
an  hour  after  they  are  decided  on.  I  trust  that  you 
are  not  acquainted  with  the  man  or  woman  who 
could  descend  to  so  mean,  so  low  an  action !" 

Pauline  Faulkner  stared  at  her  a  moment,  not 
comprehending,  and  that  bewildered,  shocked 
glance  told  the  woman  more  plainly  than  words 
that  her  suspicions,  if  she  really  had  any,  were 
unfounded.  The  girl  did  not  grasp  her  meaning, 
did  not  yet  realize  that  she  was  indirectly  alluding 
to  herself. 

"Now,  remember,"  she  went  on,  before  Pauline 
could  speak,  "I  do  not  want  you  to  take  this  to 
yourself — you  must  not.  But  if  there  is  any  one 
here  capable  of  such — such  trickery,  and  you 
discover  his  identity,  I  want  you  to  feel  that  you 
will  not  betray  any  cause  by  putting  me  on  my 
guard.  We  have  arrived  at  a  crisis,  and  the  next 
few  weeks  will  decide  whether  I  am  to  rule  the 
men  or  the  men  to  rule  me." 

Pauline  looked  at  her  gravely. 

"Since  the  day  you  have  forbidden  it  I  have 


A  VESSA.QE  129 

never  set  foot  in  the  town,  except  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings to  Mass,"  she  said.  "I  know  you  will  believe 
me.  As  for  suspecting  any  one  in  the  household 
of  being  a  spy — I  can't  think  of  any  one,  Aunt 
Laura.  The  last  I  saw  of  people  connected  with 
the  factory  was  on  the  day  when  Mr.  Williamson 
and  the  others  were  here.  In  fact,"  she  went  on, 
still  in  that  calm,  passionless  voice,  "Father  Eich- 
ards  advised  me  strongly  to  do  just  as  you  wished." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  child,"  said  the  older 
woman  in  a  gentler  tone  than  she  had  used  here- 
tofore. "And  forgive  me  if  I  seemed  harsh  about 
Mr.  Stanhope.  I  should,  indeed,  dearly  love  to  see 
you  well  settled,  but  I  must  not  expect  to  have 
all  things  as  I  would  like  them." 

"I  can  not  tolerate  Mr.  Stanhope,"  said  Pauline. 
"And  I  will  never  marry  him.  I  will  not  drag  any 
man  into  my  unhappy  life." 

"If  it  is  not  Mr.  Stanhope  it  must  be  some  one 
else,"  said  Mrs.  Lackland  with  a  smile.  "There  is 
nothing  in  your  past  that  you  need  be  ashamed  of. 
There  is  much  unhappiness,  true — much  unneces- 
sary unhappiness.  But  that  is  all.  You  are  a  fit  wife 
for  the  best  man  in  the  world,  Pauline.  You  have 
reached  the  end  of  your  journeyings  now,  my  dear." 


CHAPTER  XI 

PACE  TO  FACE  WITH  THE  ENEMY 

DINNEE  was  a  constrained  meal  that  evening. 
Pauline,  sad  and  abstracted,  sat  silent,  eating 
nothing.  Bertram  watched  her  anxiously.  He 
would  have  liked  much  to  know  what  the  note  had 
contained,  and  he  reproached  himself  more  than 
once  for  delivering  it. 

"Will  you  ride  over  to  The  Pines  with  me?"  he 
asked  Gregory,  toward  the  close  of  the  meal.  "I 
promised  Helen  that  I  would  return  this  evening." 

"Yes,"  said  Gregory  indifferently  enough.  "Do 
you  care  to  come,  Pauline  ?" 

"I  am  tired,"  she  said.  "Will  you  tell  Helen  BO  ? 
I  will  see  her  some  time  to-morrow." 

She  managed  to  get  in  a  word  with  Bertram. 

"Promise  me  to  say  nothing  of  that  note  to 
Gregory,"  she  whispered.  "I  must  have  your 
word,  Bertram." 

"I  wish  you  would  not  ask  it,  Pauline.  I  am 
afraid " 

"I  shall  tell  him  myself,"  she  answered,  "when 
180 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  THE  EXEMY         131 

the  time  comes — it  won't  be  long.  Only  please 
don't  say  anything  about  it  yet." 

"I  promise  then,"  he  said  reluctantly.  "Still, 
I  feel  that  I  am  not  wise  in  giving  such  a  prom- 
ise." 

"You  will  not  regret  it,  Bertram,  I  assure  you/' 
she  answered,  and  she  breathed  more  freely,  for 
volatile  as  Bertram  was,  he  prided  himself  on  the 
honor  of  his  word.  She  went  upstairs  to  her  room. 
It  was  barely  eight  o'clock.  From  ten  until  mid- 
night, he  had  said,  and  she  dared  not  leave  until 
the  house  was  quiet,  until  there  was  no  danger  of 
her  being  seen  or  heard.  She  listened  to  the  re- 
peated ringing  of  the  bell— one  after  the  other  the 
three  men  whom  Mrs.  Lackland  had  sent  for  were 
ushered  into  her  office — the  two  managers  and 
Judge  Masterson.  She  could  understand  now  the 
bitterness  on  Gregory's  face  when  he  acceded  to 
his  brother's  request.  How  he  must  feel  this !  How 
he  must  feel  being  ignored  and  slighted  in  this 
fashion !  Bertram,  too,  would  in  time,  and  the  girl 
marveled  at  the  shortsightedness  of  this  otherwise 
far-seeing  woman.  How  blind  she  was  to  her  own 
real  interests  I  She  had  grown  so  to  love  the  power 
she  possessed  that  she  dreaded  parting  with  a  tithe 


132         FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  THE  ENEMY 

of  it.  Gregory,  she  knew,  had  entirely  opposite 
views  to  those  his  mother  entertained.  His  hand 
on  the  helm  would  mean  a  complete  revolution  in 
the  conduct  of  the  concern.  Therein  lay  the  whole 
trouble. 

Pauline  tried  to  read,  tried  to  distract  her  mind, 
but  could  not.  She  counted  the  moments — and  oh, 
they  went  so  slowly!  She  strove  to  pray,  but  the 
prayers  would  not  come.  At  ten  o'clock  she  had 
worked  herself  into  a  fever  heat  of  unrest  and  ap- 
prehension. At  eleven  she  heard  Mrs.  Lackland 
bidding  her  guests  good-night.  She  came  slowly 
upstairs,  as  if  she  were  tired.  A  moment  after  en- 
tering her  room  she  called  softly  to  Pauline. 

"Yes,  aunt?" 

"Are  you  in  bed,  my  dear?" 

"Not  yet — I  was  reading,"  she  answered  slowly. 

"Oh,  go  to  bed,  child !  But  if  you  hear  me  in 
the  night  I  wish  you  would  come  in.  I  do  not  feel 
sick,  but  my  head  is  heavy  and  there  is  a  nasty 
throbbing  in  my  ears.  I  may  have  caught  cold." 

"I  am  a  very  light  sleeper,  Aunt  Laura — I  will 
hear  you,"  said  the  girl  gently.  "Is  there  any- 
thing I  can  do  to  help  you  now?  Can  I  bathe  your 
head?" 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  THE  ENEMY          133 

"There  isn't  any  pain — just  numbness.  It  will 
pass  off,  I  imagine,  but  it  is  unusnal.  Do  I  hear 
the  boys  downstairs?" 

"Yes,  aunt.  They  are  going  to  their  rooms — 
they  have  just  come  in/' 

"I'm  glad  they're  in.  Go  to  bed,  you,  and  don't 
think  too  much  or  read  too  much,  either." 

"Yes,  aunt,  I  am  going." 

"That's  a  good  girl.    Good-night,  dear." 

"Good-night." 

She  listened  to  the  various  sounds  dying  out — 
the  voices  of  the  two  young  men  in  their  rooms 
directly  under  hers — her  aunt  moving  about  her 
own  room,  and  then  the  sound  of  her  regular 
breathing,  showing  that  she  had  fallen  asleep  im- 
mediately. She  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  lacked 
ten  minutes  of  midnight.  Her  hands  grew  cold. 
If  she  were  not  there  at  the  hour  he  might  try  to 
see  her — he  might  even  venture  into  the  house ! 

She  went  to  her  closet  and  drew  out  a  long  dark 
cloak,  which  she  fastened  about  her,  drawing  its 
hood  closely  around  her  head.  She  turned  the 
light  out,  then,  and  tiptoed  to  the  landing.  As  she 
stole  softly  down  the  stairs,  she  noted,  in  dismay, 
that  there  was  a  stream  of  light  coming  over  Greg- 


134          FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  THE  EXEMY 

ory's  door.  He  was  still  awake.  The  fact  sent  a 
shudder  through  her.  "If  there  is  one  among  them 
whose  safety  you  prize !"  She  shrank  back  into  the 
alcove  in  a  panic,  for  she  heard  him  moving,  and 
the  next  moment  he  stood  peering  out  through  the 
half -opened  door  into  the  dark  hall. 

"Is  any  one  there?"  he  called  out. 

Pauline  dared  not  stir.  He  waited  another  mo- 
ment, listening,  and  then  closed  the  door,  evi- 
dently thinking  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  She 
stole  past  swiftly.  She  knew  better  than  to  try  to 
get  out  through  the  double-locked  doors,  but  she 
could  unbolt  the  long  swinging  window  in  the 
drawing-room  and  step  out  on  the  terrace.  It 
would  be  an  easy  way  to  return,  too — if  she  came 
back,  she  thought,  with  a  shudder.  She  did  not 
doubt  that  in  meeting  this  lawless  man  she  took 
her  life  in  her  hands. 

She  was  panting  when  she  reached  the  great 
gates,  and  stood  leaning  against  them,  trying  to 
gain  breath  and  strength.  The  moon  had  risen, 
the  road  was  flooded  with  light.  She  peered  about 
her  anxiously.  She  could  see  no  one.  Where  was 
the  creature  she  dreaded  ?  Had  he  grown  tired  of 
waiting?  It  was  only  a  little  after  the  hour — he 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  TEE  ENEMY         135 

would  surely  not  have  gone  so  soon.  .  .  .  Then 
her  heart  seemed  to  stand  still,  for  a  form  slowly 
detached  itself  from  the  surrounding  shrubbery.  It 
looked  curiously  like  that  of  Julian  Stanhope.  His 
name  faltered  on  her  lips. 

"Mr.  Stanhope,"  she  began  tremblingly. 

But  Julian  Stanhope's  clear,  sharp,  American 
tones  did  not  answer  her.  Instead,  came  the  low 
musical  drawl  she  hated  and  feared. 

"Are  you  keeping  tryst  with  two,  Pauline  ?" 

She  shivered,  and  clasped  the  gate  for  support. 

"I  have  waited  since  ten  for  you.  I  had  almost 
given  you  up." 

"I  could  not  get  away — not  until  everything  was 
quiet." 

"Oh,  I  knew  you  would  come!  You  hare  no 
lack  of  courage,  Pauline  Faulkner." 

"At  least  the  best  way  to  conquer  an  evil  is  to 
face  it,"  she  said. 

"Then  in  your  sight  I  am  an  evil?"  he  said, 
with  a  disagreeable  laugh. 

"The  only  one  that  has  ever  threatened  me,"  she 
answered  bravely. 

"Ah!  Why  court  it  in  this  wise,  then?" 

"For  the  sake  of  those  who  hare  been  kinder 


136         FACE  TO  FACE  "WITH  THE  ENEMY 

than  my  own  flesh  and  blood,"  she  answered  stead- 
ily. "I  would  not  have  harm  come  to  the  onee  who 
have  sheltered  and  cared  for  me  in  my  sore  need." 

"They  have  made  you  independent,  at  any  rate, 
Pauline.  Luxury  and  safety  must  seem  glorious 
to  the  hunted.  Do  you  find  it  so  ?" 

"What  have  you  to  say?  I  am  waiting,"  she 
answered.  "And  before  you  speak,  let  me  tell  you 
that  I  do  not  fear  for  myself.  My  life  has  not 
been  so  sweet  that  I  am  anxious  to  cling  to  it." 

"Patience,  patience !  You  received  my  word  of 
Muriel?" 

"I  received  it — yes." 

"And  believed?" 

"I  do  not  know.  You  tell  truth  when  it  serves 
your  purpose." 

"I  see  that  you  know  me.  But  I  am  not  here  to 
speak  of  Muriel.  There  was  a  conference  to-night 
at  Lyndhurst,  was  there  not  ?  Your  two  managers, 
and  your  old  Judge,  and  the  fair  mistress  with  the 
iron  hand  ?" 

Pauline  was  silent. 

"I  must  find  out  on  what  day  they  are  going  to 
declare  the  lockout,"  pursued  the  man,  with  an 
evil  smile.  "Heretofore  I  have  been  able  to  se- 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  THE  ENEMY         137 

cure  all  the  information  I  desired  without  your 
help.  This  time  I  could  not.  So  I  depend  on  you. 
That  is  not  much  to  ask,  is  it?" 

"No,  nor  much  to  tell/'  she  answered.  "Mrs. 
Lackland  has  discovered  that  some  one  in  the 
house  has  been  giving  information.  She  spoke  of 
it  only  this  evening  to  me,  and  she  has  probably 
now  taken  all  precautions  to  guard  against  such 
news  creeping  out." 

"Yet  I  must  know  it.  I  must  know  it  before  to- 
morrow noon." 

"Then  you  will  have  to  look  elsewhere  for  it." 

"I  warn  you  that  you  are  running  terrible  risks 
— you  are  placing  those  people  in  greater  jeopardy 
than  you  are  aware." 

"Do  not  be  unreasonable,"  she  said  wearily. 
"How  can  I  find  this  out?  Do  you  think 
Mrs.  Lackland  would  tell  me — or  that  I  would 
ask?" 

"No — but  your  sweetheart  will — the  man  you 
IOTC." 

Pauline  said  nothing,  but  in  the  moonlight  her 
dark  eyes  blazed  at  him. 

"You  tremble  now,"  he  said.  "You  are  afraid 
for  him !" 


138          FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  THE  ENEMY 

"No,  nor  for  anything  your  coward  tricks  may 
threaten  him  with,"  she  answered. 

"Ah!  Then  it  is  true!  My  guess  is  a  correct 
one !  He  is  your  lover — you  do  love  him  ?" 

She  had  heard  no  sound,  no  movement.  She 
was  more  excited  than  she  was  aware — perhaps 
that  accounted  for  it.  So  when  another  roice 
smote  upon  her  ears  she  straightened  up,  stiff, 
helpless,  powerless  to  move  with  fright  and  dis- 
may. 

"Pauline!"  said  some  one  behind  her  in  stern 
tones.  "What  are  you  doing  here,  and  at  this 
hour?" 

A  low,  frightened  moan  burst  from  the  girl's 
lips.  The  man  outside  the  gate,  startled  as  weil  as 
she,  and  unaware  what  this  interruption  might 
forebode,  turned  and  walked  rapidly  across  the 
road,  being  lost  to  sight  a  moment  later  in  the  un- 
dergrowth. 

"Pauline!  Who  is  that  man!  What  is  Julian 
Stanhope  doing  here — like  this?" 

She  clung  for  support  to  the  iron  bars. 

"It  is  not — Julian  Stanhope,"  she  said,  in  a 
feeble  tone. 

"Then  who  may  it  be?    Who  is  it  you  would 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  THE  ENEMY         139 

meet  in  such  a  way?"  He  took  her  arm  roughly 
and  his  fingers  closed  like  a  vice  over  it.  "Speak 
to  me !" 

She  was  striving  to  collect  her  thoughts,  striving 
to  clear  the  mists  from  her  brain.  She  did  not  feel 
the  clasp  upon  her  arm. 

"Oh,  I  can  not  tell  you !  I  can  not  tell  you !" 
she  moaned.  "What  have  you  heard  ?" 

"Nothing — save  the  accusation  that  you  have  a 
lover — you  have  a  lover  for  whom  you  fear." 

"O  Gregory,  0  Gregory,  believe  in  me!" 

The  pleading,  the  anguish  in  her  tones  touched 
him  to  the  heart.  He  knew  that  were  appearances 
trebly  worse  against  her  he  would  be  forced  to  cling 
to  his  faith  in  her  as  the  truest  and  best  of 
women. 

"Oh,  child,  God  forbid  that  I  should  doubt  yon ! 
But  what  does  it  mean  ?  You  have  been  forced  to 
see  this — this  man !  Come,  I  will  know,  Pauline. 
You  are  not  fit  to  cope  with  any  creature  who 
would  compel  you  to  meet  him  in  this  way.  Trust 
me,  trust  me." 

"I — can  not!"  she  whispered.  "For  your  own 
sake,  Gregory,  I  dare  not." 

"You  are  in  his  clutches  still — it  is  that  man 


140         FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  THE  ENEMY 

Penniston !  Oh,  my  poor  little  girl,  my  poor  little 
girl!" 

Her  limbs  failed  her.  She  tottered  back  against 
the  gate.  With  great  tenderness  he  drew  her  close 
to  him  and  put  his  arm  around  her  shaking  form. 
She  did  not  resist  him. 

"You  can  not  help  yourself — but  I  will  help 
you,"  he  said  gently.  "I  will  free  you  from  your 
slavery,  Pauline.  After  all,  it  is  only  a  slavery  of 
fear.  He  can  not  harm  you." 

"It  is  only  that,  I  know,"  she  said  mechanically. 
"But  I  must  suffer  it.  I  fear  for  you,  Gregory. 
They  would  hurt  you,  harm  you,  while  I  am  com- 
paratively safe.  Let  me  go  my  own  way.  That  is 
my  fate!" 

For  answer  his  arm  tightened  about  her.  He 
said  no  word,  and  together  they  entered  through 
the  window  on  the  terrace.  And  she  left  him  fas- 
tening it.  She  dreaded  his  questioning,  though  she 
had  nothing  to  tell  him  save  what  he  already  knew. 
That  Penniston  had  found  her  out,  had  followed 
her,  to  resume  the  persecution  and  probably  the  at- 
tentions which  he  had  once  forced  upon  her — was 
that  anything  to  tell?  Well  had  he  named  it  the 
"slavery  of  fear."  Not  so  much  for  herself  now, 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  THE  ENEMY         141 

as  she  had  said,  but  for  those  who  had  befriended 
her.  The  man  had  many  unscrupulous  allies,  and 
could  do  much  harm  without  being  suspected  of 
complicity  in  the  evil.  It  was  this  she  dreaded 
most.  She  had  scanned  the  servants'  faces  often 
and  anxiously — wondering  what  one  among  them 
would  serve  as  Penniston's  emissary.  And  to- 
night, more  than  ever,  the  fear  of  his  baneful  power 
was  upon  her. 

As  for  Gregory,  the  moment  for  him  had  been  a 
revelation.  He  would  not,  if  he  could,  have  hin- 
dered her,  when  she  slipped  away  from  him  in  the 
darkness.  The  great  rush  of  tenderness  that  had 
filled  his  entire  being,  the  words  that  seemed  to 
tremble  involuntarily  on  his  lips,  showed  him,  sud- 
denly, the  feelings  that  had  grown  up  in  his  heart 
for  his  mother's  protegee.  He  grasped  the  fact 
that,  as  if  by  chance,  this  girl  had  entered  his  life 
and  filled  it.  What  it  meant  he  did  not  ask.  He 
was  satisfied.  As  of  one  who  meets  an  unexpected 
but  welcome,  well-loved  guest,  and  gives  himself  up 
solely  to  his  entertainment. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MARION  SIQOGNB  LEARNS  SOMETHING 

EARLY  next  morning  Father  Richards — more 
careworn  than  ever — appeared  at  Lyndhurst,  and 
asked  for  Gregory  Lackland.  The  mistress  of  the 
house  had  not  yet  appeared,  but  the  priest  did  not 
wish  to  see  her,  he  said,  in  answer  to  the  servant's 
question.  Gregory  and  he  talked  for  some  time  in 
the  library,  and  then  the  young  man  put  on  his  hat 
and  went  out  with  him.  Later,  when  Mrs.  Lack- 
land inquired  for  her  eldest  son,  she  was  told  that 
he  and  his  visitor  had  last  been  seen  on  the  way 
going  into  the  town. 

Pauline,  pale  and  heavy-eyed,  for  she  had  slept 
little,  but  spent  the  night  in  a  fever  of  unrest  and 
turmoil,  looked  inquiringly  at  the  older  woman, 
who  was  seated  at  the  breakfast  table  when  she 
entered. 

"You  do  not  seem  well,  Aunt  Laura,"  she  said, 
kissing  her  affectionately.  "And  yet  I  know  that 
you  did  not  stir  all  night." 

"I  slept  very  heavily,"  said  Mrs.  Lackland,  "but 
142 


MARION  8IOOGNE  LEARNS  SOMETHING    U3 

my  sleep  has  done  me  no  good.  The  numb  feeling 
persists.  Still,  I  feel  better  than  I  did.  I  shall 
spend  as  much  time  in  the  open  air  as  I  can  to- 
day." 

"It  is  quite  sharp  outdoors,"  said  the  girl  in  a 
listless  tone.  "We  may  have  snow — it  feels  as  if 
it  would  snow/' 

"Where  is  Gregory?"  asked  Bertram,  coming  in 
at  that  moment. 

"He  went  away  with  Father  Eichards  two  hours 
ago/'  answered  his  mother. 

"With  Father  Richards!"  echoed  the  young 
man.  "There  must  be  trouble  somewhere.  .  .  . 
Two  hours  ago — seven  o'clock!  Are  you  sure, 
mother?" 

"So  I  have  been  told,"  said  the  mother,  a  trifle 
wearily.  "Do,  for  goodness'  sake,  sit  down  and  get 
the  breakfast  over.  Your  coffee,  Mr.  Sands." 

She  handed  her  thin,  weazened  little  secretary 
the  cup  as  she  spoke.  He  glanced  at  her,  and 
there  was  a  disagreeable  smile  on  his  lips. 

"Possibly  he  has  gone  out  on  the  same  business 
that  took  him  away  at  midnight,"  he  said.  "And 
you,  also,  Miss  Faulkner." 

Mrs.  Lackland  raised  her  eyebrows.    She  would 


144    MARION  SIGOGNE  LEARNS  SOMETHING 

not  evince  any  curiosity  before  Mr.  Sands,  but  she 
wondered  what  the  remark  meant. 

"I  do  not  think  it  was  quite  midnight,  Mr. 
Sands,  was  it?"  asked  the  young  girl,  looking  at 
him  unconcernedly  enough.  "I  only  know  that  I 
was  restless  and  uneasy,  and  that  I  thought  the 
fresh  air  would  help  me." 

"Midnight  and  after,"  he  said,  not  looking  at 
her  this  time,  seemingly  absorbed  in  sugaring  his 
coffee. 

"I  thought  you  yourself  did  not  reach  home 
until  one  o'clock,  Mr.  Sands/'  said  Mrs.  Lackland 
carelessly.  "Isn't  that  what  you  told  me  ?" 

The  little  man  said  nothing.  There  was  a  faint 
flicker  of  the  eyelids,  and  his  mouth  sharpened  a 
trifle. 

"I  did  not  hear  Mr.  Sands  come  in  at  all,"  said 
Pauline,  then.  "Although  I  heard  Gregory  and 
Bertram,  and  I  was  awake  most  of  the  night.  You 
must  have  been  afraid  of  disturbing  us."  She 
spoke  in  a  careless  tone,  though  her  heart  was  beat- 
ing quickly. 

The  little  man  was  nonplussed.  He  had  no 
answer  ready — the  girl's  unembarrassed  statement 
would  have  made  any  further  remark  uncalled  for, 


MARION  8IGOGNE  LEARNS  SOMETHING     145 

if  not  impertinent,  and  in  regard  to  himself  he  had 
no  wish  to  say  more.  Pauline's  manner  had  not 
been  assumed — it  was  her  habit  always  to  be  armed 
for  attack,  and  she  knew  that  Mr.  Sands  enter- 
tained no  friendly  feelings  for  her.  She  did  not 
wish  to  trouble  Mrs.  Lackland,  who  seemed  rather 
odd,  she  thought,  this  morning,  both  in  appearance 
and  manner,  and  she  had  had  neither  the  time  nor 
the  words  to  tell  Gregory  what  it  was  that  Pennis- 
ton  had  demanded.  She  meant  to  tell  him.  She 
was  fully  aware  that  danger  threatened,  and  she 
looked  to  Gregory  to  prevent  it.  She  was  very 
much  disturbed  at  Father  Kichards'  sudden  call. 
Had  the  evil  overtaken  them  already  ? 

Mrs.  Lackland  was  in  her  office  straightening 
out  some  papers  when  Gregory  returned.  Her  son 
went  to  her  immediately. 

"I  am  going  back  again  at  once,"  he  said  to  his 
mother,  in  a  constrained  voice,  as  she  glanced  up 
at  him  interrogatively,  and  waited  for  him  to  speak. 
"Father  Kichards  thinks  it  will  be  well  if  I  am 
seen  about  the  town  to-day.  And  now — I  am 
here  ..."  He  swallowed  hard  a  few  times,  and 
then  threw  out  his  hand  with  an  appealing  gesture. 
"I  ask  you  to  forget  the  hard  words  that  have 


14«    MARION  SIOOGNE  LEARNS  SOMETHING 

passed  between  us.  Forgive  me  if  I  have  hurt  you. 
I  would  not  do  so  unless — unless  I  felt  it  necessary. 
Oh,  mother,  I  want  your  common  sense  now,  your 
good  judgment  .  .  .  Let  me  listen  to  these  men, 
I  beg  of  you.  Let  us  go  back  to  them  now  and 
talk  matters  over  with  them.  Reinstate  William- 
son— and  Johnson  and  Philips  and  Martin,  the 
three  discharged  with  him.  You'll  lose  nothing 
and  gain  much — " 

Mrs.  Lackland  put  up  her  hand. 

"Do  not  go  any  further,  Gregory.  I  decided  the 
factory  policy  last  evening." 

"Mother,  you  are  blind !    You  are  mad !" 

A  smile  touched  her  lips. 

"We  shall  see.  These  men  must  be  taught  a 
lesson.  And  now,"  she  looked  at  him  sharply, 
"where  was  Pauline  last  night  at  midnight?  Are 
you  entirely  unprejudiced,  entirely  unbiased,  en- 
tirely uninterested  ?  Has  not  Pauline  had  much  to 
do  with  these  liberal  views  of  yours  ?  Is  she  not  up- 
holding here  the  views  that  have  been  instilled  into 
her  so  long  in  the " 

"Mother — please  do  not  bring  Pauline  into  it." 

"There  is  a  traitor  somewhere  in  this  house- 
hold. You  have  told  me  as  much.  One  who  spies 


MARION  8IGOGNE  LEARW8  SOMETHING     147 

and  listens  and  reports  all  that  may  transpire. 
Last  night  I  feared  it  might  be  Pauline,  but  it  did 
not  seem  possible  that  she  would  thus  betray  me. 
To-day  I  do  not  know  what  to  think.  Where  was 
Pauline  at  midnight?  Where  were  you?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  honest,  frank  eyes. 

"I  went  after  Pauline,"  he  said,  "and  brought 
her  home." 

"Brought  her  hsome!"  she  exclaimed,  aghast, 
"What  folly  is  this?" 

"A  folly  she  committed  for  our  sake,"  he  an- 
swered steadily.  "Penniston  is  here.  Penniston 
has  been  at  work  among  our  poor  men,  and  you 
know  what  Penniston's  lawless  views  are,  and  what 
Penniston  has  planned  to  do  to  revenge  himself 
on  you,  on  us.  He  owes  it  to  you  that  Pauline 
escaped  him,  and  he  is  still  possessed  of  a  mad  in- 
fatuation for  the  girl.  He  is  not  of  the  type  of 
man  to  forget.  You  know  that  just  as  well  as  I 
do,  and  you  know  now  why  I  am  so  persistent. 
When  men  see  those  they  love  in  peril  they  hesitate 
at  no  desperate  deed.  I'm  warning  you,  mother. 
I  need  say  nothing  further." 

"I  am  glad  of  that." 

Gregory  looked  at  her  one  moment,  and  that 


148    MARION  8IGOONE  LEARNS  SOMETHING 

grave,  accusing  look  only  added  fuel  to  her  smolder- 
ing anger. 

"I  have  pleaded  with  you,  mother,  I  have  argued 
with  you.  But  it  will  do  no  good.  And  now  I  am 
going  to  say  something  which  you  may  not  like  to 
hear.  My  father's  place  is  mine,  and  I  stand  in 
my  father's  stead.  I  demand  some  of  his  author- 
ity. You  are  going  to  declare  a  lockout.  You 
shall  not  do  it." 

Her  glance  met  his  coldly. 

"Anything  your  father  did  or  had  or  accom- 
plished was  through  me,  through  your  mother.  In 
asking  authority  in  his  name,  you  ask  nothing  that 
belonged  to  him.  Gregory,  when  I  am  dead  you 
shall  do  as  you  please,  but  living  I  can  manage 
my  own  affairs,  and  I  will." 

"That  is  your  last  word  to  me  ?" 

"My  last  word !"  Her  voice  trembled  with  pas- 
sion. "My  very  last  word." 

"Well,  then,  mother,  I  shall  leave  Lyndhurst. 
Better  men  than  I  have  started  out  penniless  and 
without  advantages.  My  packing  will  occupy  but  a 
short  while — I  will  go  to-morrow." 

"As  you  please,"  she  answered. 

"I  would  go  now,  at  this  moment,  but  that  I 


MARION  SIGOGNE  LEARNS  SOMETHING     149 

must  settle  affairs  at  The  Pines,  and  I  must  try 
also  to  get  Penniston  out  of  town — " 

She  held  up  her  hand. 

"Wait  a  moment/'  she  said,  and  turned  to  her 
desk.  "Money  will  evidently  have  influence  with 
that  man.  Here  is  a  signed  and  certified  check. 
I  will  not  fill  it  out.  Give  him  any  sum  you  think 
reasonable  and  let  him  go." 

"I  would  think  even  the  smallest  sum  unreason- 
able," said  Gregory  in  his  even,  cold  tones.  "And 
I  had  rather  you  put  a  limit  to  the  amount.  He 
will  have  none." 

She  passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead  wearily. 

"Give  him  anything  he  demands,  no  matter  how 
unreasonable,"  she  said,  "so  that  we  get  rid  of  him. 
I  will  not  have  Pauline  harassed  and  bullied  by  this 
creature." 

So  generous  in  all  things  save  one,  thought  Greg- 
ory, as  he  left  the  room.  In  a  few  moments  he 
was  on  his  way  to  The  Pines.  Bertram  had  al- 
ready preceded  him.  Gregory  could  not  wait  to  see 
Pauline:  he  felt  that  every  moment  was  precious 
now,  and  later — well,  he  had  too  much  to  say  to 
wish  to  leave  her  when  he  met  her  again.  Marion 
was  reading  when  he  entered  the  library.  He 


150    MARION  8IOOGNE  LEARNS  SOMETHING 

wasted  no  time,  but  plunged  into  business  im- 
mediately, and  she  tried  to  follow  him,  wondering 
meanwhile  at  the  strangeness  of  his  manner.  He 
closed  the  books  at  last. 

"You  are  good  to  take  so  much  trouble  for  me 
when  you  are  in  such  distress  about  your  mother's 
affairs,"  she  said  gently.  "Are  the  rumors  I  hear 
true — that  there  is  disaffection  among  the  men  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Gregory  shortly,  "but  of  course  I 
can  not  interfere.  My  mother's  business  is  entirely 
in  her  own  hands,  not  in  mine.  I  settled  these 
small  details  of  yours  to-day  because  I  shall  be  too 
busy  to  come  over  again,  and  I  leave  Lyndhurst  to- 
morrow." 

"You  leave  Lyndhurst!"  she  echoed.  "I 
thought  your  mother  had  decided  to  go  the  early 
part  of  next  week.  Pauline  will  be  fully  recovered 
then." 

"I  am  not  going  with  my  mother,"  he  said. 

"Not  going  with  your  mother?"  She  gave 
him  a  questioning,  eager  glance.  "Then  you  have 
decided  to  take  my  advice  ?  You  intend  to  seek  a 
larger  field?" 

"Perhaps,"  he  answered.  "But  how  to  find  it  or 
where,  I  do  not  know.  I  go,"  with  a  smile,  "to 


MARION  8IGOGNE  LEARNS  SOMETHING     151 

seek  my  fortune.  I  am  not  over-fond  of  fortunes, 
but  I  shall  have  to  find  one  somewhere/' 

"Oh,  Gregory !"  Her  face  was  very  pale.  "At 
least,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone,  "you  will  write  to 
me — you  will  let  me  know  where  you  are?  Do 
not,"  she  said  pleadingly,  and  putting  her  hand  on 
his  arm,  "do  not  be  hard  on  that  foolish  girl  you 
once  knew  who  spoiled  her  life  by  an  act  of  utter 
folly » 

Surely  she  could  say  no  more !  Surely  if  he  ever 
cared  or  ever  could  care,  he  would  speak  now !  He 
raised  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"You  will  hear  from  me/'  he  said.  "If  not  di- 
rectly, at  least  through  Bertram.  And  if  I  ever 
thought  hardly  of  you,  Marion,  in  the  past,  rest  as- 
sured that  I  realize  that  it  was  only  the  impetuosity 
of  youth.  Your  youth  and  mine.  It  was  a  good 
thing  for  both  of  us.  We  part  the  best  of  friends." 

"That  is  well,"  she  answered,  and  shook  hands 
with  him  then  as  if  indeed  he  had  been  to  her  but 
the  friend  he  declared  himself.  She  needed  all 
her  pride,  all  her  vanity,  to  carry  her  through  the 
few  moments  that  followed.  She  dared  not  give 
way.  She  dared  not  show,  by  word  or  sign,  that 
his  going  mattered,  and  yet  her  heart  beat  in  her 


152    MARION  SIGOGNE  LEARXS  SOMETHING 

breast  like  a  wild  thing.  She  wanted  to  go  after 
him,  to  plead  with  him  to  remain.  But  all  the 
rules  of  convention  bound  her,  and  she  said  noth- 
ing. Only  stood  looking  about  her  with  a  hunted 
expression,  her  eyes  dark  with  pain. 

"Wasn't  that  Gregory?"  called  Helen,  coming 
into  the  room.  "Where  has  he  gone  in  such  a 
hurry  ?" 

"I  do  not  know — he  did  not  tell  me,"  said  her 
stepmother  slowly.  "Is  Bertram  with  you?" 

"He  has  just  gone  down  to  the  stable — he  imag- 
ined that  one  of  Soliman's  legs  was  rather  stiff 
when  he  rode  over,  and  he  wanted  to  look  at  it.  He 
seems  upset,  too,  mother.  There  is  some  trouble  at 
Lyndhurst,  isn't  there?" 

"There  must  be,"  said  Mrs.  Sigogne  quietly. 
"Although  I  did  not  ask — I  did  not  like  to  ask." 

"Bertram  says  that  Julian  Stanhope  asked 
Pauline  to  marry  him." 

"Oh !" 

"She  refused  him  completely,  and  he's  gone 
away,"  chattered  the  girl.  "I'm  sorry,  mother — I 
wish  she  had  taken  him.  He  was  really  nice,  don't 
you  think  so?" 

"She  is  rery  foolish,"  said  Mrs.  Sigogne.    "He 


MARION  SIGOGNE  LEARNS  SOMETHING     153 

would  have  made  her  a  good  husband.  Mrs.  Lack- 
land should  have  had  something  to  say  there.  Well," 
she  picked  up  the  papers  from  the  table,  "if  you 
want  me  again,  Helen,  I  shall  be  in  my  own  room. 
Bertram  will  stay  to  lunch,  I  presume  ?" 
"I  have  not  asked  him  yet — but  I  think  so." 
With  unerring  instinct  Marion  Sigogne  seemed 
to  dirine  the  truth.  Now  she  knew  why  Gregory 
Lackland  was  so  indifferent  to  her.  He  loved 
Pauline  Faulkner !  And  Pauline,  that  cold,  silent 
creature,  with  water  in  her  veins,  seemingly,  in- 
stead of  blood — that  pale-faced  nobody,  who  came 
but  to  bring  trouble,  that  bird  of  passage,  with  God 
only  knew  what  unsavory  past — that  girl  was  her 
successful  rival ! 

For  a  moment  the  woman  lost  all  self-control. 
Hot  rage  contorted  her  features,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment her  beauty  vanished  in  the  anger  that  con- 
sumed her.  Why  had  Laura  Lackland  ever 
brought  that  unfortunate  creature  to  Lyndhurst! 
She  deserved  whatever  evil  happened  to  her !  She 
could  thank  her  for  this.  Why  had  Gregory  left 
London  so  suddenly,  if  it  was  not  because  he  knew 
that  her  two  years  of  mourning  were  up,  and  that 
he  would  see  her  at  The  Pines?  All  might  have 


154    MARION  8IGOGNE  LEARNS  SOMETHING 

been  well,  save  for  this  stranger,  who  came  from 
nowhere,  who  took  it  upon  herself  to  dictate  to 
others ! 

She  heard  laughter  downstairs.  Helen  and  Ber- 
tram were  together,  full  of  life  and  happiness! 
Well !  Mrs.  Lackland  would  have  more  trouble  with 
her  youngest  son  than  she  had  bargained  for.  Mat- 
ters were  going  too  evenly — it  was  time  she  took  a 
hand  in  the  management  of  things.  And  she 
would,  she  would ! 


CHAPTER  XIII 

GREGORY  DEALS  WITH  PENNISTOM 

AT  luncheon  Marion  Sigogne,  if  paler  than 
usual,  betrayed  no  emotion  out  of  the  common. 
Still,  Helen  looked  at  her  several  times,  a  little 
wonderingly.  There  was  something  constrained  in 
her  manner  to  the  girl  who  knew  her  so  well. 

"I  am  seriously  thinking  of  giving  up  my  win- 
ter in  the  city,"  she  said  casually,  toward  the  close 
of  the  meal. 

"Will  you  stay  at  The  Pines?"  asked  Helen 
joyously.  "I  should  like  that  better  than  anything 
else." 

"No,"  said  her  stepmother,  "we  will  go  abroad." 

"Abroad !"  cried  the  girl,  in  consternation.  "We 
came  home  but  a  few  short  months  ago.  I  don't 
like  foreign  countries  and  foreign  cooking  and  for- 
eign living." 

"Not  even  foreign  dukes  or  earls?"  laughed  her 
stepmother  oddly. 

"No,  indeed !"  cried  the  girl.  "I  shall  marry  an 
American  or  no  one,"  and  she  stole  a  glance  from 

under  her  long  lashes  at  Bertram. 
156 


156        GREGORY  DEALS  WITH  PENHISTOX 

"You  are  entirely  too  young  to  think  of  mar- 
riage," said  her  stepmother  severely. 

"I  shall  be  eighteen  in  a  very  little  while/'  pouted 
the  girl.  "And  there  is  not  much  difference  be- 
tween eighteen  and  twenty.  And  you  married  when 
you  were  twenty/' 

"I  will  be  satisfied  if  you  wait  that  long,  and 
then  marry  as  well  as  I  did." 

"Oh,  of  course,  mother " 

"But  I  have  not  met  anybody  yet  who  I  would 
willingly  allow  you  to  marry.  Surely  your  father 
never  intended  your  fortune  to  contribute  toward 
the  support  of  a  husband." 

Her  meaning  was  obvious,  her  manner  so  studied 
and  so  cold,  that  the  young  people  exchanged  be- 
wildered glances.  Bertram  reddened  boyishly.  He 
was  so  surprised  at  this  pointed  remark,  so  as- 
tonished at  what  it  implied,  that  he  had  no  words. 
Should  he  declare  his  intentions? — was  this  the 
time?  And  if  Mrs.  Sigogne  turned  on  him,  and 
asked  him  in  that  icy  voice  what  his  prospects 
were,  what  was  he  to  say  ? 

"Any  man  who  wins  Helen  needs  no  other  for- 
tune," he  said  with  dignity.  Then  he  saw  that 
Helen  had  put  her  finger  to  her  lips  quietly,  enjoin- 


GREGORY  DEALS  WITH  PENyiSTON        157 

ing  silence.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  bent 
over  his  plate.  Astonishment  was  followed  by  a 
feeling  of  injury.  What  had  moved  Marion  Sig- 
ogne  to  insult  him  ?  For  it  was  an  insult,  and  she 
must  mean  it  as  such. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said  to  Helen  in  a  hurt  tone, 
when  he  could  get  a  word  with  her,  "and  when  I 
come  back  I  shall  have  something  positive  to  say. 
Oh,  Helen,  what  a  foolish,  frivolous  boy  I  have 
been!  But  I'm  a  man  now — and — you  won't  let 
her  come  between  us  ?" 

"What  a  question  I"  said  the  girl,  smiling.  "She 
is  just  annoyed  or  put  out  about  something.  She 
will  be  all  right  to-morrow.  Perhaps  she  and  Greg- 
ory have  quarreled." 

"Whether  they  have  or  not,"  he  said,  shaking  his 
head  soberly,  "my  eyes  have  been  opened " 

"Helen,  my  dear!  Will  you  come  to  me  a 
moment  ?" 

"Yes,  mother,  directly.    Bertram  is  going." 

Marion  Sigogne  made  no  answer,  nor  did  she 
come  out  to  say  good-by  to  the  young  man.  He 
was  more  bitterly  hurt  still  at  this,  for  he  had 
always  cared  a  good  deal  for  Mrs.  Sigogne.  His 
eyes  said  much  to  Helen,  but  he  did  not  speak — 


158        GREGORY  DEALS  WITH  PEXNI8TON 

only  wrung  her  hand  silently  and  went  away,  while 
Helen  thoughtfully  re-entered  the  house. 

Meanwhile,  Gregory  had  proceeded  on  his  errand. 
He  went  to  the  rectory  at  once,  whence  he  had  de- 
parted in  the  foolish  hope  that  he  could,  at  the  last 
moment,  win  concessions  from  his  mother.  It  was 
the  noon  hour,  and  little  groups  of  men  were  scat- 
tered about,  talking  excitedly,  but  not  loudly.  They 
glanced  up  as  Gregory  passed  among  them,  and  a 
good  many  anxious  eyes  were  fastened  on  his  face, 
for  the  danger  that  threatened  involved  not  only 
the  men  themselves,  but  their  families  and  homes. 
He  tried  to  appear  cheerful,  and  saluted  them 
pleasantly,  but  as  Father  Richards  opened  the  door 
for  him  himself,  too  anxious  to  allow  any  one  else 
to  do  it,  he  made  a  hopeless  gesture. 

"I  have  played  my  last  card,  made  my  last  ap- 
peal, Father/'  he  said.  "Have  you  seen  Pennis- 
ton?" 

"He  is  known  as  Franklin — Bart  Franklin  here. 
It  is  he  who  has  fomented  this  thing,  and  I  fear — 
What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  him  ?  Pauline " 

"No  harm  shall  come  to  Pauline,  Father,"  said 
the  young  man.  And  then  in  a  voice  of  emotion 
which  he  could  not  control:  "Save  over  my  dead 


GREGORY  DEALS  WITH  PENNI8TON        159 

body.  Every  hair  of  her  head  is  precious  to 
me." 

"Thank  God !"  said  the  priest.  "She  is  a  good 
girl — a  tender-hearted  woman.  I  am  glad  you  care 
for  her — very  glad.  But  about  this — this  Franklin, 
or  Penniston,  or  whatever  his  name  is " 

"I  am  going  to  try  to  buy  him  off.  His  whole 
work  here  has  been  done  through  revenge.  Now 
we'll  see  if  money  can  help  matters/' 

"You  have  your  mother's  consent  ?" 

"Yes.    I  have  told  her.    You  say  you  saw  him  ?" 

"I  saw  him.  He  was  very  ugly,  but  he  promised 
to  come  here  at  dusk.  He  said  he  did  not  want 
the  men  to  see  him.  I  told  him  that  one  would 
be  here  to  meet  him  who  would  have  something 
of  interest  to  say.  This  is  a  terrible  time, 
Gregory !" 

"I  know  it,  Father.  There  is  no  telling  what  may 
happen.  I  suppose  we  should  appeal  for  troops  to 
protect  us — God  only  knows  what  dangerous  deed 
the  men  may  have  in  view.  But  I  can't  do  that, 
and  my  mother  has  evidently  not  thought  of  it — " 

"My  dear  boy,  rest  assured  that  her  advisers  have 
done  so.  They  are  giving  the  soldiers  time  to  get 
here  before  declaring  the  lockout." 


160        GREGORY  DEALS  WITH  PENNI8TON 

"Oh,  Father  Richards,  no!  My  mother  would 
not  do  anything  like  that !" 

"She  is  a  headstrong  woman,  in  the  hands  of 
evil  counselors/' 

"Father !  I  shall  never  know  a  quiet  moment  if 
anything  happens.  You  know  how  one  careless 
word  will  stir  up  strife — and  the  soldiers  must  pro- 
tect themselves !  Oh,  she  is  indeed  being  ill-coun- 
seled." 

The  priest  was  in  sore  distress  himself,  but  he 
could  not  help  pitying  this  young  fellow,  who  sat 
now  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"We  will  pray !"  he  said  softly.  "Our  Lord  may 
change  her — or  at  least  He  will  take  care  of  my 
poor  people.  As  for  you — you  have  done  what  you 
could — you  have  left  no  stone  unturned.  You  are 
helpless.  Do  not,  therefore,  take  this  thing  too 
much  to  heart.  Affairs  can  not  go  on  like  this 
forever." 

They  spent  the  next  hour  talking  quietly.  About 
three  o'clock  Father  Richards  was  sent  for  on  a 
pressing  sick-call,  and  Gregory  was  left  alone.  He 
tried,  to  read,  but  his  mind  was  full  of  hideous 
thoughts  that  tormented  him.  He  feared  all  sorts 
of  evils,  of  dangers  to  his  mother,  to  Pauline.  Oh, 


GREGORY  DEALS  WITH  PENXI8TON        161 

if  he  could  but  rid  this  poor  girl  of  that  horrible 
creature,  that  man  who  was  draining  the  very  life- 
blood  of  energy  and  hope  from  her  veins ! 

It  was  growing  dark  when  he  heard  the  priest's 
old  housekeeper  talking  to  some  one  in  the  front 
hall. 

"You  can  come  inside  and  wait  for  him,"  she  was 
saying.  "He's  been  gone  a  while,  so  that  he  can't 
be  much  longer  away."  And  then  she  came  in  to 
Gregory.  "There's  a  man  here — Father  Richards 
said  I  should  bring  him  in — that  you'd  attend  to 
him.  So  will  you  come  out  here  and  see  if  it's  the 
right  one?  I  don't  like  to  see  strangers  pokin' 
around,  an'  this  man  is  a  stranger  to  me." 

Gregory  went  out  into  the  hall,  and  glanced  into 
the  small  waiting-room.  The  stranger  was  stand- 
ing impatiently  just  inside  the  door. 

"Will  you  come  with  me,  sir?"  he  said  politely, 
and  the  man  followed  him  into  the  priest's  library. 
Gregory  turned  on  the  switch,  and  the  room  was 
flooded  with  electric  light. 

"May  I  trouble  you  to  pull  down  the  shades?" 
asked  the  stranger  in  low,  drawling,  musical  tones. 

Gregory  obeyed.  There  seemed  to  be  something 
so  familiar  about  this  man,  about  his  carriage,  even 


162        GREGORY  DEALS  WITH  PENNISTON 

his  peculiar  way  of  talking.  He  knew  what  it  was 
when  he  faced  him  again  a  moment  later.  He  was 
a  fair  man,  of  a  pronounced  blond  type,  with 
peculiar,  steel-blue  eyes.  Not  prepossessing,  rather 
crafty-looking.  And  yet  he  reminded  Gregory  of 
Julian  Stanhope.  He  no  longer  wondered  why 
Pauline  disliked  the  man  who  had  come  to  woo  her 
— it  was  because  she  had  felt  this  odd  resemblance 
without  guessing  at  it. 

"We  have  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  before," 
said  Gregory  slowly.  "And  not  so  many  hours  ago. 
Whom  have  I  the  honor  of  addressing — Mr.  Bart 
Franklin  or  Mr.  Wilfrid  Penniston  ?" 

"Whichever  one  you  wish  to  have  dealings  with," 
drawled  the  other,  watching  him  keenly.  "Our 
good  friend,  the  priest,  scarcely  prepared  me  for 
this — honor.  He  did  not  mention  who  it  was 
wanted  to  see  me  so  particularly." 

"Oh!  You  imagined,  perhaps,  it  was  the  girl 
whom  you  tried  to  frighten  and  to  browbeat  ?  She 
will  never  meet  you  again,  I  trust.  I  shall  take 
care  of  all  that  for  her  in  the  future." 

"Oh!    I  see!    May  I  congratulate  you?" 

"Just  a  moment,  please — we  have  little  time  to 
waste  in  words.  I  am  here  with  a  fair  business 


GREGORY  DEALS  WITH  PEXNI8TON        163 

proposition  to  you.  I  want  you  to  take  the  very 
next  train  for  the  city — it  leaves  in  one  hour  and 
ten  minutes.  But  before  doing  so  I  have  an  inter- 
esting little  document  which  you  are  to  sign." 

He  pushed  a  sheet  of  paper  across  the  table  as 
he  spoke.  The  man  picked  it  up  quickly  and  read, 
and  then  threw  it  down  with  an  oath. 

"Sign  that !  You  are  crazy  to  ask  me  to  do  such 
a  thing !" 

"Before  going  further  I  would  like  you  to  notice 
that  little  door  over  there  in  the  corner.  It  leads 
into  the  priest's  dining-room.'* 

"I  see  it,"  surlily. 

"Will  you  oblige  me,  and  satisfy  yourself,  by 
opening  it?" 

With  a  curious  glance,  the  man  arose,  crossed  to 
the  door,  opened  it  and  looked  into  the  dining- 
room.  Two  men  were  seated  at  the  table,  smoking. 
They  glanced  up  as  Penniston  surveyed  them,  but 
took  no  further  notice  of  him.  He  closed  the  door 
and  went  back  to  the  sofa. 

"Those  men  are  two  detectives  with  a  warrant  for 
your  arrest,"  said  Gregory  Lackland  evenly. 
"They  are  waiting  for  me  to  call  them.  Wait — 
don't  try  to  get  away.  I'm  just  as  strong  as  you 


164        GREGORY  DEALS  WITH  PENNI8TON 

are,  stronger,  I  think,  and  nothing  would  suit  me 
better  than  a  little  provocation  on  your  part.  I 
should  dearly  love  to  thrash  you  within  an  inch 
of  your  life,  you — you  cur!" 

The  young  man's  brown  eyes  were  blazing,  his 
face  working.  All  the  pent-up  passion  and  right- 
eous anger  seething  in  his  heart  found  vent  in  the 
words  hurled  at  the  cool  and  critical  man  opposite 
him,  who  had  half-risen,  but  now  sank  back  again. 

"You'll  meet  your  just  deserts  without  inter- 
ference of  mine,"  went  on  Gregory.  "And  I  can 
bide  my  time.  I  don't  want  to  be  bothered  with 
you — I  want  to  get  rid  of  you.  I  want  you  out 
of  the  way.  Men  like  you  have  your  price.  Name 
it." 

"Name  my  price!"  drawled  the  other  man 
slowly.  "My  price  for  leaving  your  precious  fac- 
tory hands  to  work  out  their  own  salvation?  It 
will  serve  you  very  little,  brother.  And  I  am  to 
sign  that  paper,  which  states  that  I  have  tried  to 
incite,"  he  picked  it  up  and  read  slowly,  "  *by  in- 
flammatory speeches  and  outrageous  schemes,  the 
people  of  the  West  Shore  and  East  Shore  factories 
to  deeds  of  violence.  And  that  I  hereby  swear  to 
leave  the  vicinity  of now  and  forever  in 


GREGORY  DEALS  WITH  PENNISTON        165 

consideration  of  the  sum  of .' "  He  glanced 

up.  "You  have  not  mentioned  the  sum." 

"No,  I  have  not.  Before  giving  you  any  amount, 
I  want  some  proof  that  you  will  act  in  good  faith. 
I  want  to  know  the  plans  of  the  men.  I  want  to 
know  what  they  contemplate  doing." 

"Without  me— nothing." 

"Ah,  that  is  good !    But  with  you  ..." 

The  man  leaned  back  on  the  sofa  and  put  his 
hands  in  his  pockets. 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do  with  Pauline?" 

"Marry  her,"  said  Gregory  coldly.  "But  that  is 
none  of  your  business." 

"No — that  is  none  of  my  business."  He  waited 
a  moment,  his  eyes  bent  on  the  floor.  "You  are 
sure  of  that — you  are  sure  she  will  marry  you  ?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Gregory  imperturbably. 
"She  is  done  with  the  old  life  forever.  Her  father 
thrust  her  aside  when  she  was  no  longer  of  any 
use  to  him.  She  can  not  help  her  sister.  She 
stands  alone — but  not  altogether  alone  while  I 
live." 

"Yon  may  not  live  as  long  as  you  think,"  said 
the  other  moodily. 

"None  of  us  has  a  lease  of  life — your  own  death 


166        GREGORY  DEALS  WITH  PENNI8TON 

may  be  close  at  hand,"  answered  Gregory  very 
coldly.  "If  I  die  I  shall  leave  her  in  good  hands ; 
while  I  live  I  am  able  to  protect  her." 

A  mocking  smile  played  about  the  man's  thin 
lips. 

"My  price,"  he  said,  "is  $25,000." 

Gregory  did  not  move  a  muscle.  He  drew  the 
paper  toward  him  and  filled  in  the  empty  space. 
Then  he  held  up  his  hand. 

"One  moment,"  he  said,  "we  must  have  witnesses. 
But  before  you  sign  you  have  surely  something  else 
to  tell  me." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "It  has  been  decided  that  your 
mother  dies  to-night.  If  not  your  mother,  either 
one  of  her  sons." 

"My  mother!  Or  one  of  her  sons!  I  thought 
as  much!  And  who  is  to  perform  such  a  heroic 
deed?" 

"It  is  not  yet  known.  They  are  to  choose  at 
this  evening's  meeting." 

"Which  you  will  not  attend.  You  must  regret 
having  to  miss  it.  However,  I  am  thankful  for 
the  information — I  need  know  nothing  further. 
Mr.  Hayes,  Mr.  Durson,"  he  called,  then  throwing 
open  the  door,  "will  you  come  here,  please  ?" 

The  men  stood  while  Penniston  affixed  his  name 


GREGORY  DEALS  WITH  PENNI8TOX        167 

—"Wilfrid  Penniston"  and  under  it  "Bart  Frank- 
lin." Then  the  two  officers  wrote  out  their  signa- 
tures, and  at  a  word  from  Gregory  went  back  to  the 
dining-room.  Gregory  picked  up  the  check  lying 
face  downward  on  the  table  and  filled  it  in. 

"You  will  stay  here  until  you  have  just  enough 
time  left  to  get  to  the  station,"  he  said.  "Our 
friends  outside  will  escort  you  there  and  see  you 
safely  aboard  your  train.  After  which  they  have 
other  work  to  do.  They  mean  to  attend  that  meet- 
ing of  which  you  spoke,  and  perhaps  the  men  will 
be  persuaded  that  there  is  something  to  be  said  on 
the  side  of  law  and  order." 

Gregory  folded  the  signed  and  witnessed  docu- 
ment carefully,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  Pen- 
niston said  nothing,  only  sat  staring  at  the  check 
in  his  hand.  The  two  men  came  in  from  the 
dining-room  and  took  their  places  near  him.  Greg- 
ory turned  to  them. 

"You  can  get  to  the  station  in  a  half -hour — the 
train  is  due  at  ten  minutes  past." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man  called  Hayes.  "We 
understand." 

"I  am  going  back  to  Lyndhurst.  You  know  how 
to  reach  me — later." 

They  nodded,  and  Gregory  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK 

GREGORY  was  not  surprised  to  meet  Bertram  as 
he  struck  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  He  knew  his 
brother,  who  was  much  attached  to  him,  would  be 
alarmed  at  his  disappearance  for  so  many  hours. 
He  wondered  a  little,  however,  to  see  him  on  foot, 
for  Bertram  was  averse  to  walking  when  he  could 
ride,  and  his  favorite  method  of  transportation  was 
Soliman's  back.  Neither  brother  cared  for  the 
handsome  motor  Mrs.  Lackland  had  bought  some 
months  previous  for  Pauline's  use  as  well  as  her 
own,  and  which  had  seen  very  little  service.  It  was 
a  beautiful  night,  the  moon  just  rising  behind  the 
hills,  and  the  air,  while  cold,  was  still.  They  did 
not  speak  after  the  first  word  of  greeting,  but 
walked  side  by  side  for  a  long  time  in  silence. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Gregory  at  last. 
"Or  are  you  downhearted  because  my  own  spirits 
are  at  zero  ?" 

"No,"   said   Bertram.     "Pauline   was    restless 

about  you,  and  I  myself  have  been  hurt  and  in- 
168 


A  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK  189 

suited  to-day,  so  that  I  could  not  wait  to  get  you 
home  to  tell  you  of  it.  You  must  advise  me  what 
is  best  to  be  done."  He  related  the  incident  of  that 
morning  without  preamble. 

"See  what  a  position  I  am  placed  in — and  it  is 
my  mother's  fault!"  he  said  bitterly.  "All  her 
fault !  I  was  afraid " 

"Be  careful,  Bertram.  If  anything  happened 
to  her  you  could  not  bear  to  think  that  you  had 
ever  said  one  word  of  blame." 

The  gravity  of  his  manner  impressed  Bertram. 

"You  speak  as  if  something  could  happen," 
he  said. 

"Not  now,  with  God's  help,"  said  Gregory  rever- 
ently. And  then,  very  quietly,  he  told  his  brother 
the  item  of  news  he  had  learned. 

"As  a  precaution  we  will  make  mother  change 
her  room  to-night,  and  Pauline,  too,"  said  the 
young  man.  "And  we  must  be  prepared  for  a 
long  vigil.  Hayes  and  Durson  will  come  along 
later,  and  we'll  learn  just  how  matters  stand." 

Bertram  was  so  astonished  at  this  news  that  he 
had  almost  forgotten  his  grievance.  Now  he  be- 
gan to  talk  impressively  of  their  future,  and  he 
talked  so  well,  and  with  such  sound  common  sense, 


170  A  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK 

that  Gregory  felt  he  had  misjudged  him.  Here  was 
no  idle  dreamer,  but  a  youth  ready  for  all  the  duties 
of  manhood.  They  talked  that  night  as  they  had 
never  done  before,  and  for  the  first  time  in  their 
lives  the  two  brothers  understood  each  other 
thoroughly.  But  although  Bertram  unfolded  all 
his  plans  with  the  enthusiasm  of  youth,  Gregory 
said  nothing.  If  a  thought  of  his  own  future 
crossed  his  mind  when  his  brother  spoke,  he  dis- 
missed it.  On  the  morrow  he  was  to  leave  Lynd- 
hurst — perhaps  forever.  His  pride  and  his  com- 
mon sense  waged  war  within  him.  He  had  said  he 
would  go,  and  his  mother  did  not  seem  to  want  to 
keep  him.  Well,  he  had  found  the  ringleader,  and 
banished  him.  To-morrow,  before  he  left,  he  would 
tell  her  all,  and  show  her  the  brief  confession 
signed  by  Wilfrid  Penniston.  Then,  if  she  wished, 
she  could  take  matters  into  her  own  hands. 

They  had  reached  Lyndhurst.  Bertram  passed 
through  the  gates  and  Gregory  followed.  As  the 
gate  swung  open,  the  older  brother  stooped  to  tie 
his  shoe,  the  lacing  of  which  had  become  un- 
fastened. He  had  no  sooner  bent  over  than  there 
was  a  flash  and  the  noise  of  a  gun-shot  from  the 
opposite  thicket.  The  night  was  so  quiet  that  the 


A  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK  171 

sound  carried  far  and  seemed  dreadfully  loud. 
Gregory  had  saved  his  life  by  bending  his  head. 
Bertram  stood  petrified. 

"Gregory !  Gregory  !"  he  stammered  then.  "Are 
you  hurt?" 

Gregory  said  nothing.  He  drew  him  well  inside 
the  big  bushes  before  he  spoke,  and  then  it  was  in 
a  whisper. 

"No,  the  shot  didn't  reach  me.  Eun  up  to  the 
house — quickly,  or  they  will  fear  that  something 
has  happened." 

"And  you?" 

"I  have  a  revolver  here.  I'm  going  to  find  out 
who  that  was.  Don't  wait,  Bertram ;  you  go  ahead." 

"Gregory,  I  daren't  leave  you  like  this.  Mother 
would  never  forgive  me." 

"We  are  wasting  valuable  time.  Go,  go,  I  tell 
you." 

Mrs.  Lackland  was  seated  in  the  drawing-room 
with  Pauline.  She  had  been  very  quiet  all  day,  with 
an  anxious,  strained  expression  on  her  face.  Paul- 
ine had  been  disturbed  by  Gregory's  protracted  ab- 
sence, and  it  was  because  of  this  anxiety  that  she 
had  asked  Bertram  to  try  to  meet  his  brother.  At 
the  sound  of  the  shot,  which  seemed  just  outside 


172  A.  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK 

the  window,  the  night  was  so  still,  the  book  dropped 
from  Pauline's  fingers.  The  mother  dozing  in  an 
arm-chair  near  by,  sat  up  with  a  startled,  horrified 
look  on  her  pale  face. 

"What  was  that,  what  was  that  ?"  she  gasped. 

Pauline's  lips  quivered.    She  could  not  speak. 

"It  was  a  shot — I  heard  it  plainly  ..." 

Then  came  the  sound  of  feet  running  hastily  up 
the  terrace  steps.  Mrs.  Lackland  tried  to  rise,  but 
could  not.  She  began  gasping  for  breath,  and 
Pauline,  alarmed  at  the  frightful  pallor  of  her 
face,  sprang  to  her  side.  The  next  moment  Ber- 
tram darted  into  the  room. 

"It  is  all  right,  mother — he  has  not  been  hurt." 

"Who — has — not  been — hurt?  Where  is  Greg- 
ory r 

"Coming,  dearest  mother.    Calm  yourself." 

"They  shot  at  him — they  shot  at  my  boy!  0 
God,  God  pity  me !" 

Pauline  bent  over  her,  putting  her  arm 
about  the  older  woman's  shoulders.  Half-crazed, 
Laura  Lackland  looked  up  into  that  young  white 
face. 

"I  have  you  to  thank — only  you !  This  is  Pen- 
niston's  work,  I  know  it,  I  feel  it.  You  have  drawn 


A  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK  173 

him  here,  you  whom  I  sought  to  protect,  to  shelter. 
And  through  you  I  lose  my  boy !" 

"Aunt  Laura!" 

"No,  no,  no !"  cried  Bertram,  in  a  panic  of  ex- 
citement. "Gregory  is  all  right,  mother,  I  assure 
you.  On  my  word  of  honor,  mother!  The  shot 
was  fired  as  we  entered  the  gate,  and  he  made  me 
hurry  here,  so  that  you  would  not  be  alarmed.  Do 
not  take  it  so — he  is  safe,  and  he  knows  what  he  is 
doing." 

The  mother  looked  at  the  stricken  girl  before 
her.  Her  lips  moved  faintly,  and  when  she  did 
speak,  it  was  in  a  hoarse  voice : 

"Go  away !  Go  away !  You  but  torment  me  the 
more !  I  can  not  bear  the  sight  of  you !" 

"Mother!"  cried  Bertram.  "She  is  distraught, 
Pauline " 

But  the  girl  moved  slowly  toward  the  door,  her 
fair  head  bowed,  her  frail  limbs  staggering  under 
the  weight  of  her  body.  With  her  hand  upon  the 
knob  she  turned. 

"If  Gregory  is  safe,  why  is  he  not  here?"  she 
whispered. 

"Yes !  If  Gregory  is  safe,  why  did  he  not  come 
in  with  you  ?  Bertram,  you  are  deceiving  me." 


174  A  SHOT  IV  THE  DARK 

"No,  mother,  I  am  not,"  he  answered.  "I  am 
not  deceiving  you." 

Pauline  opened  the  door  and  went  out.  Mrs. 
Lackland,  too  weak  to  move,  to  rise  from  her  chair, 
lay  back,  moaning  and  sobbing,  all  self-control 
gone.  To  Bertram,  unable  to  do  more  for  her,  un- 
determined what  course  to  pursue — whether  to 
leave  his  brother  to  seek  his  would-be  murderer 
alone,  or  to  rouse  the  servants  and  lead  them  in 
search  of  him,  paced  up  and  down  the  floor,  run- 
ning his  fingers  through  his  hair  in  a  fever  of  un- 
rest. Not  a  sound  was  heard,  no  other  shot  was 
fired.  Ten  minutes  passed  in  this  way,  twenty,  the 
half -hour.  At  last  the  quick,  sharp  step  they  knew 
so  well  sounded  outside,  and  the  next  moment 
Gregory  entered  the  room. 

His  mother's  eyes  met  his  in  silence.  She  could 
not  speak. 

"Were  you  worried,  mother?  I  could  not  help 
it.  Something  told  me  that  I  should  be  able  to  do 
a  good  bit  of  work  out  there  in  the  woods,  and  I 
succeeded.  Why,  mother,  what  is  the  matter? 
Were  you  very  much  disturbed  ?" 

He  leaned  over  her  chair,  and  she  passed  her 
hands  over  his  arms,  his  shoulders,  his  face,  his 


A  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK  175 

hair,  in  an  outburst  of  tenderness.  He  clasped  her 
close  to  him  and  kissed  her  affectionately. 

"0  Gregory,  my  son,  my  son,  my  son !"  She  was 
sobbing  on  his  breast. 

"Hush,  mother,  hush,  dear  mother.  It  is  a  good 
night  for  us." 

Gradually  her  sobs  ceased. 

"Oh,  that  miserable  girl  must  go  away !  She  has 
cost  me  nothing  but  trouble  and  unrest  since  she 
came !" 

"What  is  this  ?"  cried  Gregory.  "Where  is  Paul- 
ine ?"  With  his  arms  about  his  mother  he  turned 
to  Bertram.  "Where  is  she,  where  is  she  ?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Bertram.  "She  went  out 
a  half-hour  ago." 

"Out!    Out  in  the  grounds?    Why?" 

Bertram  did  not  answer. 

"It  was  Penniston  who  tried  to  shoot  you?" 
asked  his  mother,  trembling. 

"No,"  said  Gregory.  "I  have  disposed  of  Pen- 
niston." 

"Do  you  know  who  it  was  ?" 

"Yes  —I  found  him." 

"Found  him!"  cried  the  mother  and  Bertram 
together.  "And — where  is  he?" 


176  A.  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK 

"I  let  him  go,"  the  young  man  answered  quietly. 
"He  has  been  driven  almost  wild  by  evil  counsel. 
He  is  one  of  our  own  men,  mother.  I  sent  him 
home  to  his  wife  and  family  in  a  better  frame  of 
mind,  I  hope." 

"This  is  pure  folly—" 

"I  must  see  Pauline,"  interrupted  the  young 
man  quickly.  "Find  out  for  me  if  she  is  in  her 
room,  Bertram.  Tell  her  I  must  see  her  at  once." 

"I  am  sure  she  went  out,  Gregory,"  said  the 
brother,  "but  I  will  go  upstairs." 

"Why  should  you  want  to  see  Pauline?"  asked 
the  mother  tempestuously.  "What  is  Pauline  to 
you?" 

"Nothing — nothing  yet,"  he  answered  gravely. 
"But,  oh,  very  much  in  the  future,  I  hope.  I  mean 
to  marry  her  if  she  will  have  me." 

"If  she  will  have — "  Mrs.  Lackland  laughed — a 
low,  mirthless  laugh.  "Ah !  I  see  it  all !  Now  I 
understand  her — and  you!" 

The  young  man  said  nothing.  He  heard  Ber- 
tram's step  on  the  stairs.  He  went  out  to  him. 

"She  is  not  in  the  house,  Gregory." 

Gregory  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  hall.  His 
keen  eyes  searched  the  terrace.  He  went  down  the 


A  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK  177 

steps,  still  searching,  and  along  the  path,  but  Paul- 
ine was  not  visible.  Anxious  now,  he  was  going 
back  again,  when  a  blotch  of  white  at  the  foot  of  an 
old  oak-tree  a  little  off  the  road  attracted  him.  He 
went  toward  it.  It  was  Pauline,  seated  on  the 
ground,  her  arms  across  her  knees,  her  face  hid- 
den. 

"My  darling !  My  darling !"  he  whispered  pas- 
sionately, bending  over  her.  "Come,  this  is  no  place 
for  you.  You  will  be  ill,  and  oh,  I  need  your 
strength,  your  counsel,  my  own  dear  girl,  now,  if 
never  before." 

She  raised  her  white  face. 

"Is  it  you,  Gregory?  0  Gregory,  my  heart  ia 
broken !" 

"No,  sweetheart,  no !  It  is  my  heart  now — not 
yours,  and  I  shall  take  good  care  of  it." 

"You  are  safe !     They  have  not  injured  you  ?" 

"They  have  helped  me.  Come,  dear,  this  is  no 
place  for  you." 

"I  know  it,"  she  said.  "I  know  it.  Gregory,  if 
you  have  ever  liked  me,  if  you  have  ever  respected 
me,  do  something  for  me  now." 

"Yes,  dearest — anything." 

"Go  inside  that  house  and  get  my  cloak — the 


178  A  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK 

long,  dark  one ;  it  is  close  at  hand,  for  I  had  it  on 
this  afternoon.  And  the  black  scarf  that  I  wear. 
Bring  them  to  me." 

"Why — you  mean — " 

"I  am  an  outcast.  I  can  not  go  back.  I  can  not 
sleep  another  night  in  Lyndhurst." 

"My  mother— " 

"Oh,  she  is  right,  right !  I  am  a  miserable,  un- 
happy girl.  I  should  have  gone  long,  long  ago—- 
but no,  I  stayed !  I  would  not  be  counseled  by  my 
own  wisdom.  Gregory,  it  is  all  over.  There  is 
nothing  left,  nothing.  Even  Aunt  Laura  turns 
against  me,  reproaching  me.  And  she  is  right,  that 
is  the  worst  of  all.  I  have  brought  this  misery  on 
those  I  love — " 

She  broke  into  piteous  sobs.  He  put  his  arms 
around  her  and  drew  her  within  their  shelter. 

"You  are  mine,"  he  said  solemnly.  "I  love  you, 
Pauline.  My  mother  was  beside  herself  with  fear. 
She  can  not  be  held  accountable.  Are  you  so  hard, 
BO  unforgiving  as  to  credit  her  with  a  knowledge  of 
what  she  was  saying  ?  Come,  my  brave  girl,  come. 
We  will  go  to  her  together.  I  will  tell  her  what  you 
are  to  me — " 

"Gregory,"  she  murmured,  "I  dare  not — I  daw 


A  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK  17f 

not  care  for  you.  I  dare  not  let  you  care  for  me.  I 
am  fated.  God  does  not  want  me  to  be  happy — " 

"That  is  blasphemy,"  he  said.  "God  is  trying 
you  sorely,  but  He  wants  you  to  be  happy  in  His 
own  time  and  His  own  way.  Let  us  leave  our 
future  in  His  hands,  my  dear  girl,  and  attend  to 
more  pressing  matters.  You  can  not  stay  out  here 
— you  are  chilled  and  shivering.  You  can  not 
leave  Lyndhurst  alone,  unprotected.  When  you  go, 
I  go  with  you.  Would  you  force  me  to  desert  my 
mother  in  her  sorest  need  ?  Yet  that  is  how  much  I 
love  you,  Pauline!" 

She  tottered,  holding  to  him  for  support,  but  his 
tender  arms  were  about  her,  and  she  did  not  draw 
back  when  he  led  her  gently  in  the  direction  of  the 
house.  At  the  foot  of  the  terrace  steps  he 
paused. 

"You  love  me,  Pauline?  You  have  not  said  it 
yet,  sweetheart. " 

She  lifted  her  drawn  face  to  his,  and  her  eyes 
were  shining  through  her  tears. 

"I  love  you,  Gregory/' 

They  went  into  the  house.  Pauline  released  her- 
self and  went  upstairs  immediately.  Gregory 
sought  his  mother.  She  was  still  in  the  armchair, 


180  A  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK 

Bertram  in  another,  close  in  the  shadow  of  the 
window.  Gregory  did  not  see  him. 

"You  found  Pauline,  Gregory?" 

"Yes,  I  found  her,  mother.  And  I  hare  told  her 
that  I  loved  her.  Will  you  welcome  this  girl  as 
your  future  daughter  ?" 

"No,"  was  the  uncompromising  answer,  "I  will 
not.  And  if  you  marry  her  it  will  be  without  my 
consent." 

She  was  again  the  harsh  woman  of  the  early 
morning,  her  momentary  weakness  and  tenderness 
forgotten,  evidently.  But  Gregory  could  not  for- 
get. A  great  thankfulness  was  in  his  heart.  His 
impulse  was  to  get  away  hy  himself,  where  he  could 
thank  God,  who  had  preserved  his  life,  who  had  put 
the  solution  of  their  great  difficulty  into  his  hand, 
and  who  had  given  him  the  woman  of  his  heart — 
the  woman  who  was  so  dear  to  him.  A  sad  expres- 
sion stole  into  his  face  as  he  looked  down  at  his 
mother.  His  eyes  met  hers,  not  angrily,  but  as  if  he 
were  mutely  pleading  for  one  touch  of  sympathy. 

"No  shadow  must  rest  on  the  name  of  the  girl 
who  will  be  your  wife,"  said  the  mother  evenly. 
"If  you  had  chosen  wisely,  Gregory,  Marion 
Sigogne— " 


A  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK  181 

"Mother,  if  you  please — we  will  not  go  into 
that,"  he  said,  in  low  tones.  "Marion  Sigogne 
taught  me  a  bitter  lesson  some  years  ago.  She 
caused  me  many  miserable  hours.  She  almost 
wrecked  my  belief  in  the  honesty  of  a  woman's 
word,  my  faith  in  her  promise.  But,  thanks  be  to 
God,  I  had  a  good  mother.  I  could  not  unlearn  the 
lessons  that  mother  had  taught  me,  and  I  was 
saved.  Since  then,"  his  voice  seemed  tired  and 
weary,  "I  felt  like  a  man  who  has  been  sorely 
wounded.  The  hurt  had  healed,  but  I  was  afraid 
of  it.  Until  I  saw  her  again,  and  then  I  knew  that 
not  even  the  scar  remained.  Do  not  compare  Paul- 
ine, the  soul  of  truth,  upright,  honest,  and  pure, 
with  Marion  Sigogne,  who  sold  herself  for  an  old 
man's  money." 

And  so,  still  with  that  expression  of  sadness  on 
his  face,  he  let  his  hand  rest  lightly  on  hers  for  a 
moment,  and  left  the  room.  He  did  not  stoop  to 
kiss  her,  as  was  his  habit,  but  the  touch  was  a  caress 
in  itself.  Bertram  knew  that  he  had  not  observed 
him,  and  he  shrank  back  into  the  shadows.  He 
would  not  have  Gregory  imagine  that  he  had  seen 
or  heard  any  of  that  revelation  of  the  deepest  feel- 
ings of  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XV 
PAULINE'S  DETERMINATION 

To  her  first  impulse  of  despair,  when  Pauline 
left  the  shelter  of  that  home  in  which  had  been 
found  the  only  peace  she  had  ever  known,  had  suc- 
ceeded a  dull  horror  of  the  fate  in  store  for  her. 
Penniless  and  friendless,  the  girl  stood  looking  into 
what  seemed  a  very  sea  of  desolation. 

"Oh,  dear  Lord,"  she  prayed,  as  she  fell  pros- 
trate at  the  foot  of  the  great  oak  tree,  "take  me 
to  Thyself.  I  can  bear  no  more.  Or  if  it  be  Thy 
holy  will  that  I  live  on,  save  me  from  peril,  pre- 
serve me  from  the  hands  of  my  enemies." 

Sobbing  heart-brokenly,  she  had  not  heard  Greg- 
ory's approach,  and  when  she  lifted  her  strained 
white  face  to  his  and  the  voice  of  her  8oul  found 
vent  in  those  pitiful  words,  "Oh,  Gregory,  my  heart 
is  broken!"  she  felt  that,  no  matter  where  she 
turned,  there  was  no  relief,  no  hope  for  her.  In  all 
her  troubled  and  perilous  life  she  had  never  known 
such  bitter  anguish. 

Gregory's  declaration,  while  it  comforted  her,  did 

182 


PAL7 LINE' 8  DETERMINATION  183 

not  fill  her.  with  the  joy  that  the  same  words  would 
have  caused  at  another  and  more  propitious  time. 
It  was  sweet  to  feel  that  some  one  cared,  that  some 
one  understood,  but  her  mind,  projected  into  the 
future,  saw  the  impossibility  of  their  mutual  affec- 
tion. The  woman  who  had  ordered  her  away  that 
night  would  never  agree  to  this  marriage.  Greg- 
ory might  win  her  consent  by  persuasion  or  de- 
fiance, but  Pauline  was  too  true,  too  straight- 
forward, to  enter  a  family  under  such  conditions. 
And  again  her  common  sense  came  to  her  aid.  She 
must,  indeed,  return  to  the  house.  She  could  not 
wander  out  into  the  world  without  making  some 
provision  for  immediate  needs.  She  had  a  few 
little  treasures  to  gather  together,  a  few  trinkets 
that  had  been  her  mother's,  and  that  she  could 
probably  convert  into  money  to  serve  her  until 
she  found  a  way  of  supporting  herself.  She  moved 
about  the  pretty  room  which  Mrs.  Lackland  had 
made  so  bright  and  charming  for  the  unhappy 
young  stranger.  She  took  out  her  little  brown 
handbag  and  opened  it — it  would  contain  every- 
thing necessary  for  the  present. 

She  had  no  ambitions  left,  no  hope.    She  went 
around  the  room  slowly,  picking  out  from  among 


184  PAULINE'S  DETERMINATION 

the  many  gifts  bestowed  upon  her  the  few  things 
that  were  her  own.  She  was  tired  to  the  point  of 
complete  exhaustion.  She  heard  Mrs.  Lackland's 
heavy  step  on  the  stairs,  heard  her  enter  her  own 
room.  At  another  time  she  would  have  called  out 
to  her — but  not  now.  She  shrank  a  little  from 
meeting  her,  from  talking  to  her.  She  felt  that 
she  could  never  seek  the  interview. 

But  Gregory's  mother  sought  it.  She  opened 
the  door  between  them  and  came  in  with  that  un- 
usual, slow  step,  her  face  very  pale.  There  were 
lines  of  pain  between  her  eyebrows.  Pauline 
turned  as  she  entered,  meekly  indeed,  for  so  proud 
a  nature,  waiting.  And  Mrs.  Lackland  said  noth- 
ing, only  stared  at  her  with  inscrutable  eyes. 

"You  will  forgive  me  for  coming  back,  Aunt 
Laura,"  said  the  girl.  "But  I — I  could  not  help  it. 
I  will  go — I  am  going — as  soon " 

The  words  died  on  her  lips.  Gregory's  mother 
sat  down  heavily  in  a  chair. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  she  said  in  her  slow, 
heavy  voice.  "Pauline,  you  and  I  must  come  to 
an  understanding." 

"Yes,"  whispered  the  girl. 

"Before  we  go  any  further,  before  we  say  any- 


PAULINE'S  DETERMINATION  185 

thing  else,  one  thing  must  be  understood.  You 
can  not  marry  Gregory." 

The  girl  bowed  her  head. 

"I  know  that,"  she  answered.  "Oh,  I  know  that 
very  well,  Aunt  Laura." 

A  gleam  of  satisfaction  shot  across  the  older 
woman's  face. 

"Ah !    You  are  sensible.    Do  you  love  him  ?" 

Lower  and  lower  sank  the  fair  golden  head. 

"My  girl,  I  want  an  answer." 

"I  do  not  intend  to  marry  him,  Aunt  Laura. 
That  ought  to  satisfy  you." 

"So !  Then  you  do  love  him !  That  is  why  you 
rejected  Julian  Stanhope!" 

"No,"  said  Pauline,  shuddering,  "that  is  not 
the  reason.  I  could  not  bear  Julian  Stanhope, 
Aunt  Laura — I  did  not  refuse  him  because  of 
Gregory — I  did  not  know  I  cared  for  Gregory  un- 
til to-night,  to-night,  when  I  heard  that  shot.  .  .  . 
Then  I  knew,  Aunt  Laura,  then  I  knew." 

Mrs.  Lackland  waved  her  words  aside. 

"If  things  had  gone  well  I  expected  to  see  Greg- 
ory and  Marion  Sigogne  man  and  wife.  That  has 
been  my  desire  always.  They  were  sweethearts  in 
their  youth,  but  something  came  between  them — 


18«  PAULINE'S  DETERMINATION 

and  now  you  have  managed  to  part  them  more  ef- 
fectually." 

The  poor  girl  wrung  her  hands  together. 

"Not  intentionally,"  she  said,  "oh,  not  inten- 
tionally. Please  hold  me  guiltless  of  meaning  to 
do  any  harm " 

"I  can  not.  It  is  all  your  fault.  You  brought 
discontent  among  the  men  at  first.  Penniston  fol- 
lowed you  here,  and  fomented  rebellion.  My  in- 
dustry— the  pride  of  my  dear  husband's  life  and 
mine — is  in  peril.  My  son's  life  is  threatened — is 
endangered.  Through  you !  through  you !  It  would 
be  a  fitting  crown  to  all  this  if  he  did  indeed  marry 
you !" 

"Aunt  Laura !  You  are  cruel !  you  are  heart- 
less !  Was  it  my  fault  that  I  came  here  first  ?  Did 
I  not  warn  you  ?  Did  I  not  tell  you  all  ?  Did  you 
not  hear  my  story  from  beginning  to  end  and  Pen- 
niston's  part  in  it  ?  And,  Aunt  Laura,"  her  roice 
quivered,  "did  you  not  say  that  all  would  be  for- 
gotten ?  No,  no !  Listen  now !  And  when  I  came 
here  you  bade  me  interest  myself  in  work  that 
pleased  me,  and  from  the  lips  of  those  who  suf- 
fered, those  to  whom  you  would  not  listen,  I  heard 
the  story  of  the  meanness  and  cupidity  of  the  two 


PAULINE'S  DETERMINATION  187 

men  you  trusted  rather  than  your  own  sons.  If  I 
tried  to  open  your  eyes  .  .  .  was  that  breeding 
discontent?  If  Penniston  followed  me  here — did 
you  not  suspect  he  would  ?  Oh,  Aunt  Laura,  blame 
me  if  you  must,  but  not  unjustly." 

Mrs.  Lackland  was  silent.  Every  word  the  girl 
spoke  was  true.  She  had  befriended  her,  and  then 
when  the  friendship  entailed  the  very  conse- 
quences she  had  foreseen,  she  turned  on  her  and 
would  cast  her  off.  For  a  moment  the  woman's 
natural  sense  of  justice  and  openness,  her  honesty, 
struggled  with  her  cold  anger.  Struggled  and 
lost. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do?"  she  asked  after  a 
moment. 

"I  am  going  away,  of  course." 

"Where?" 

"I  do  not  know.  I  mean  to  disappear  from  your 
life  as  I  entered  into  it — as  I  have  always  known 
I  would  disappear.  Neither  you  nor  yours  will 
ever  be  troubled  by  me  again " 

"And  Gregory " 

"Gregory  least  of  all." 

"If  you  assure  me  of  that — if  you,  Pauline 
Faulkner,  promise  me  that  Gregory  will  never 


188  PAULINE'S  DETERMINATION 

learn  your  whereabouts,  I  will  help  you — I  will 
provide  you  a  refuge  and  means  to  remain  in  it." 

The  girl's  bosom  heaved,  her  eyes  flashed,  her 
nostrils  dilated.  She  flung  her  fair  head  high  in 
air,  and  the  old  proud  spirit,  which  could  nerer  be 
tamed,  spoke  in  every  lineament  of  her  counte- 
nance. 

"Aunt  Laura,  though  I  knew  when  I  left  your 
door  that  the  next  day's  sun  would  find  me  penni- 
less and  starving,  I  would  take  no  further  help 
from  you.  You  have  done  enough  for  me,  and  I 
am  grateful.  I  take  it  as  you  gave  it.  Freely, 
generously,  you  held  out  your  hand  to  me,  and  I 
would  not  be  outdone  in  my  acceptance  of  your 
bounty.  But  now!  Ah,  now  is  a  different  mat- 
ter. I  am  young,  strong,  healthy.  I  will  make  my 
own  way." 

"So  be  it,"  said  the  woman  proudly,  unforgiv- 
ingly.  "I  at  least  feel  that  I  have  done  my  duty." 

That  was  her  last  word  to  Pauline.  She  went 
back  into  her  own  room  again,  and  the  girl  threw 
herself  upon  her  pillows,  quivering  with  shame  and 
mortification.  She  had  bent  meekly  enough,  for 
her,  under  the  terrible  strain  of  that  awful  day, 
but  this  last  scene  sent  the  blood  in  hot,  bounding 


PAULINE'S  DETERMINATION  189 

gushes  through  her  entire  frame.  Oh,  if  she  could 
go  out  that  very  hour,  that  very  moment !  But  fear 
of  the  man  who  was  her  evil  shadow  was  stronger 
than  shame  at  the  mother's  words.  It  would 
not  be  right  to  risk  what  she  might  have  to  face, 
at  midnight,  with  the  gates  of  Lyndhurst  closed 
behind  her  forever.  Prudence  and  sense  and 
prayer  helped  her  to  control  the  fierce  resentment 
that  seemed  urging  her  to  rash  and  desperate 
deeds. 

She  prayed  indeed.  Every  struggling  breath  was 
a  prayer,  every  stifled  sigh  an  invocation.  No  tears 
came — tears  were  far  from  her  dry  and  burning 
eyes.  With  hidden  face  she  lay  there,  her  arms 
above  her  head.  How  long  she  did  not  know,  for 
she  had  no  thought  of  time. 

Suddenly  she  heard  an  unwonted  noise  in  the 
hall  below,  the  hurried  steps  of  men  and  women, 
the  quick,  rapid  speech  of  alarm.  She  rose  to  a 
sitting  posture,  listening,  and  as  she  did  so  she 
noticed  that  the  sky  outside  her  window  was  red. 
She  sprang  to  her  feet  quickly  and  pulled  away  the 
curtains.  One  of  the  outbuildings  was  ablaze, 
whether  the  barn  or  the  new  garage  which  had  just 
been  finished  she  could  not  tell.  The  excited  cries 


190  PAULINE'S  DETERMINATION 

of  the  servants  came  up  to  her.  She  heard  Greg- 
ory's low  tones,  and  knew  he  was  on  the  terrace 
.  .  .  that  he  was  going  out  I  Her  heart  sank 
within  her.  She  turned  toward  the  door,  rushed 
swiftly  down  the  steps  and  along  the  hall,  passing 
the  servants  in  her  rapid  flight,  and  out  to  the  ter- 
race. Gregory  was  just  in  front  of  her.  She 
dashed  down  the  steps  and  grasped  his  arm. 

"Gregory,  Gregory,  do  not  go — it  may  be  a 
trick  I"  She  clung  to  him.  "Oh,  Gregory,  let  the 
others  .  .  .  " 

"Sweetheart,  I  am  in  no  danger.  I  do  not  think 
it  has  been  set  on  fire — I  do  not  think  it  is  the  work 
of  the  men " 

"Penniston !"  she  whispered. 

"Is  far  out  of  town  by  now,  dear.  I  shall  tell 
you  about  it  to-morrow —  Who  is  that  ?"  he  broke 
out  then,  as  a  form  loomed  up  in  front  of  him. 
"What,  you,  Hayes?  Where  is  Durson?" 

"He  turned  off  with  the  men  to  the  fire,  sir.  I 
thought  I  had  better  try  to  reach  you  first/' 

"That  is  right.  Have  you  seen  our  friend  to 
safety?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,  hours  ago." 

"Good,  good !    Pauline,  my  dear  child,  go  into 


PAULINE'S  DETERMINATION  191 

the  house  and  wait  for  me — I  will  tell  you  all  when 
I  come  back.  Go,  dear.  There  is  no  one  with  my 
mother  if  she  wakes,  and  this  blaze  will  frighten 
her.  Bertram  is  ahead  with  the  others/' 

"Please  do  not  be  very  long/'  whispered  the  girl. 
He  pressed  her  hand  tenderly,  and  she  turned  back, 
while  he  and  Hayes  kept  on  to  where  the  red  flames 
were  showing  above  the  trees. 

"We  got  him  out  of  the  way  safely,  sir,"  said 
Hayes,  knowing  that  this  matter  was  uppermost 
in  Gregory's  mind.  "The  express,  too,  as  you  ar- 
ranged, and  he  couldn't  get  off  that  in  time  to 
reach  town  again  and  do  any  mischief  before  we 
had  our  little  say.  Then  we  went  to  the  meeting. 
They  didn't  give  us  a  very  warm  reception,"  he 
said,  "until  I — Durson  wanted  me  to  do  the  talk- 
ing— began  telling  them  that  Bart  Franklin  had 
sold  them  out.  We  needed  our  revolvers  for  the 
next  few  minutes,"  with  an  ironical  smile.  "I 
didn't  stop  at  anything,  sir.  I  told  them  just  who 
he  was,  and  why  he  came  here — to  revenge  himself 
on  Mrs.  Lackland  for  a  private  motive,  which  it 
wouldn't  do  any  good  to  state.  I  guess  they're  no 
fools.  They  began  to  put  two  and  two  together,  and 
I  had  'em  pretty  well  on  my  side,  when  a  fellow 


192  PAULINE'S  DETERMINATION 

came  in — the  one  that  tried  to  settle  you  this  eve- 
ning." 

"I  know,"  said  Gregory  with  satisfaction. 

"Say,  he  tried  to  tell  the  whole  thing,  but  he 
broke  down  and  cried  like  a  baby.  Told  'em  just 
what  you  had  said,  and  that  you  were  going  to  do  all 
you  possibly  could  for  them,  but  that  they  must  be 
patient,  even  if  things  did  look  queer  for  a  while. 
He  got  those  fellows  round  his  finger  in  a  jiffy. 
They'd  do  anything  for  you  or  Miss  Pauline.  That 
wasn't  a  planned  affair — that  shot  at  you.  It  was 
the  fellow's  own  mad  impulse.  And  everything  is 
declared  off — for  a  while,  anyhow.  They  don't 
mean  to  do  anything  yet." 

"I  knew  it,  I  knew  it !"  said  Gregory  under  his 
breath.  "Oh,  if  I  could  get  the  reins  of  power  in 
my  hands  just  for  one  month !  Just  one  month ! 
I'd  give  ten  years  of  my  life  for  it !" 

They  were  nearing  the  scene  of  the  blaze.  Ber- 
tram and  Durson  joined  them. 

"It  is  the  barn,"  said  Bertram.  "We  can't  save 
it,  though  the  men  have  the  water  turned  on.  They 
are  keeping  a  stream  or  two  on  the  garage." 

"The  horses  are  safe?" 

Tes — they  reached  there  in  time.     They  had 


PAULINE'S  DETERMINATION  193 

a  little  trouble  with  Pauline's  pony — it  nearly  went 
crazy.  But  nothing  happened." 

"Do  they  know  how  it  started  ?" 

"No  idea — looks  as  if  some  one  were  careless. 
Doesn't  seem  intentional,  anyhow." 

The  brothers  stood  watching  the  burning  build- 
ing. The  entire  barn  was  in  flames — it  was  useless 
to  try  to  save  it.  There  was  very  little  breeze — a 
fortunate  thing — and  a  steady  stream  of  water 
pouring  on  the  garage  successfully  eliminated  the 
fear  of  any  further  danger. 

"I  don't  think  we  are  needed  here,"  said  Greg- 
ory. "You  had  better  go  back  to  the  house,  Ber- 
tram. If  you  don't,  mother  will  come  down  to  find 
out  for  herself  what  the  trouble  is.  It  is  pretty 
late,  Mr.  Hayes — you  and  Durson  must  put  up  with 
us  for  the  night.  If  you  are  tired,  come  back  now. 
Our  men  will  see  to  everything." 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  said  Hayes  quietly,  "that 
your  mother  has  one  man  here  she'd  better  get  rid 
of.  His  name  is  Sands." 

"Sands !    Why,  he's  her  secretary !" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  how  much  he's  made  out  of 
it — but  he  and  Bart  Franklin  have  been  pretty 
thick.  I  believe  they  had  some  misunderstand- 


194  PAULINE'S  DETERMINATION 

ing  a  few  days  ago — had  a  fine  quarrel,  and  Sands 
applied  for  some  hours'  absence  just  when  he  knew 
he  would  be  most  necessary  to  the  other  side." 

"I  remember.  My  mother  was  very  much  an- 
noyed at  his  asking  it  at  that  time.  So — that  is 
the  chap !  Got  any  proofs,  Hayes  ?" 

"Only  what  the  men  told  me,  and  they  couldn't 
say  much  definite.  I  caught  the  name,  though " 

"Gregory !    Bertram !    Are  you  there  ?" 

The  brothers  turned  at  the  panting  call.  It  was 
Pauline,  breathless. 

"Get  Soliman  and  ride  as  fast  as  you  can  for 
the  doctor  and  Father  Richards.  Aunt  Laura  has 
gone  off  into  a  swoon  from  which  none  of  us  can 
rouse  her,  and  I'm  afraid  if  s  dangerous.  Hurry, 
hurry,  Bertram!" 


CHAPTEK  XVI 

MRS.   LACKLAND  IS  STRICKEN 

LAURA  LACKLAND  never  felt  so  bitter  toward  any 
one  as  she  did  toward  Pauline  when  she  left  her 
with  the  words,  "At  least  I  have  tried  to  do  my 
duty/'  She  was  a  really  noble-minded  woman, 
who  seldom  failed  to  temper  justice  with  mercy. 
But  in  some  things  she  was  implacable.  She  re- 
sented the  entire  sentiment  of  her  household  now. 
She  knew  that  she  was  acting  in  an  unfair  manner 
to  both  her  sons,  but  love  of  power  had  her  in  its 
grasp,  and  she  was  struggling  with  her  conscience. 
She  tried  to  blame  any  one,  anything  but  herself, 
and  the  only  one  near  at  hand  to  blame  was 
Pauline.  Upon  Pauline,  then,  fell  all  the  burning 
anger  which  she  was  too  proud  and  cold  to  dis- 
play, but  which  seethed  in  her  heart.  The  girl's 
words  had  not  helped  to  placate  her  any,  their 
worst  sting  being  in  their  truth.  She  had  no  room 
for  softer  feelings  as  she  went  back  into  her  apart- 
ment and  prepared  to  retire.  She  had  never  been 

ill  in  her  life,  but  the  last  few  days  had  completely 
195 


196  MRS.  LACKLAND  18  STRICKEN 

unnerved  her.  She  thought,  in  a  tired  fashion, 
that  she  would  not  worry  any  longer — at  least  not 
until  the  morrow.  She  could  not  kneel,  but  sat 
beside  her  bed,  saying  a  few  prayers  mechanically 
— and  as  she  prayed  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling 
seemed  to  creep  over  her.  After  all,  she  was  right 
— poor  Pauline  was  right  .  .  .  And  Gregory  .  .  . 

But  she  could — she  would — think  no  further. 
She  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  in  the  same  mechan- 
ical fashion,  and  then  lay  down.  Her  eyes  closed 
immediately.  A  feeling  of  absolute  rest  swept  over 
her.  Yes,  she  was  tired.  To-morrow  she  would 
settle  everything,  to-morrow  she  would  see. 

And  so  she  fell  asleep.  And  slept  during  the 
long  hours  when  the  unhappy  girl  in  the  next  room 
lay  face  down  in  her  pillows,  covered  with  shame, 
filled  with  anguish.  Slept  soundly,  as  one  ex- 
hausted sleeps,  through  the  first  hurrying  noise, 
the  rushing  footsteps,  the  calls  of  alarm.  Slept 
while  Pauline,  thinking  of  nothing  or  no  one  but 
the  man  she  loved,  raced  from  the  room  and  out 
into  the  night  to  warn  and  implore. 

But  Pauline  had  not  been  gone  a  moment  when 
the  sudden  cessation  of  all  noise,  perhaps,  aroused 
the  mother.  She  looked  about  her  dazedly.  Her 


1IRS.  LACKLAND  18  STRICKEN  197 

bed  faced  the  window,  and  through  the  curtains 
she  saw  the  leaping  tongues  of  flame  that  spoke  of 
near  disaster.  Fear  lent  her  strength.  She  pulled 
aside  the  curtains  and  stared  out  into  the  night. 
She  could  grasp  nothing,  save  that  harm  threat- 
ened, that  it  was  close  at  hand. 

"Gregory !  Gregory !"  she  cried.  "Oh,  Gregory, 
where  are  you  ?" 

All  grew  dark  before  her  eyes.  She  clutched  at 
the  curtains  with  a  wild  fear  that  her  son  was  in 
danger  once  more.  She  tried  to  steady  herself,  and 
held  on  to  the  heavy  drapery  with  both  shaking 
hands. 

"Gregory !  Gregory !  Pauline !  Pauline,  come 
to  me,  come  to  me !" 

Pauline,  coming  up  the  stairs  at  that  moment, 
heard.  The  low,  choking  tones  pierced  the  terrible 
silence  that  had  fallen  over  the  house.  With  swift 
feet  the  young  girl  ran  into  the  room,  her  face 
ashen,  her  gray  eyes  black,  dilated.  She  put  her 
arms  about  the  older  woman. 

"I  am  dying,  Pauline !"  she  whispered.  "I  am 
dying !  Forgive !  Forgive !" 

"Oh,  Aunt  Laura — oh,  Aunt  Laura,  my  dearest, 
my  best  friend !"  whispered  the  girl  in  accents  of 


198  MRS.  LACKLAND  18  STRICKEN 

utter  tenderness.  They  pierced  through  the  fail- 
ing senses.  The  woman  opened  her  eyes  again, 
looking  at  her  so  imploringly,  so  piteously,  that  the 
hot  tears  gushed  into  Pauline's  eyes.  Then  the 
form  grew  heavy  in  her  arms.  She  could  not  sup- 
port that  dead  weight,  but  she  sank  with  it  to  the 
floor,  and  pulled  a  cushion  toward  her  from  one  of 
the  chairs.  The  gray  pallor  of  Mrs.  Lackland's 
face  alarmed  her.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  heart. 
It  was  beating. 

"Thank  God !"  she  whispered  aloud.  She  found 
a  servant  on  one  of  the  lower  floors  and  sent  her 
upstairs  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Lackland  until  she  re- 
turned, and  then  went  to  Gregory.  Bertram 
waited  to  hear  no  particulars,  and  Gregory  turned 
back  to  the  house  at  once  after  her  terrified  an- 
nouncement. To  Pauline  every  event  of  that  night 
seemed  to  be  burning  into  her  brain  with  a  force 
that  no  subsequent  lapse  of  time  could  ever  ef- 
face. The  last  flickering  blaze  of  the  big  barn 
and  its  heap  of  red  embers ;  the  grotesque  effects  of 
the  play  of  flame  on  the  faces  of  the  men — and 
then  the  sudden  onslaught  of  questions  from  Greg- 
ory, as  he  broke  into  a  run  beside  her,  with  swift 
apology  to  Hayes,  left  far  behind,  and  over  all  the 


MRS.  LACKLAND  18  STRICKEN  199 

quick,  pounding  beat  of  Soliman's  hoofs  as  Ber- 
tram tore  away  on  his  vital  errand. 

Mrs.  Lackland  lay  as  Pauline  had  left  her,  and 
Gregory  and  the  girl  lifted  her  into  bed  and  c<rv- 
ered  her.  She  was  still  unconscious,  but  heart  and 
pulse  beat  in  a  labored,  struggling  fashion.  At 
first  Pauline  tried  to  revive  her,  bathing  her  tem- 
ples and  making  Gregory  chafe  her  hands,  but  all 
the  simple  remedies  failed,  and  they  were  forced 
to  desist.  A  terrible  weight  seemed  to  rest  on  Greg- 
ory's heart  as  he  stood  looking  down  at  his  mother's 
face,  gray  and  ashy,  with  a  strange  shadow  on 
it. 

"It  doesn't  seem  like  an  ordinary  faint,  does  it, 
Pauline?"  he  asked. 

"It  isn't,"  she  answered  gently.  "My  own 
mother  used  to  slip  off  into  fainting  spells — and 
they  were  not  like  this.  It  may  be — you  see,  the 
excitement " 

"Pauline !  She  is  not  dying !  You  do  not  think 
she  is  dying?" 

"No,  no.     Bertram  can  not  be  long,  now " 

"God  forgive  me!"  said  Gregory  with  a  groan. 
"I  felt  that  I  would  give  the  world,  if  I  possessed 
it,  to  hold  the  Lackland  Mills  in  my  power.  I 


200  MRS.  LACKLAND  18  STRICKEN 

prayed  that  God  would  show  me  some  way  to  ac- 
complish my  desire.  Pauline,  Pauline,  if  anything 
happened  to  her  I  would  never  forgive  myself, 
never." 

"Hush,  hush!"  said  Pauline.  "You  are  un- 
nerved, unstrung.  Do  not  think  such  things,  it 
is  wrong." 

She  was  back  again  in  the  place  she  had  filled — 
the  planner,  the  consoler,  the  head.  She  slipped 
into  a  position  of  authority  as  by  right.  She  had 
been  her  mother's  only  stay,  only  hope  for  years 
— Pauline,  rather  than  Muriel  the  elder,  who 
had  been  ever  somewhat  heedless  and  thought- 
less. 

It  was  an  hour  and  a  half  before  Bertram  ar- 
rived with  the  doctor.  Father  Richards  had  been 
away,  and  he  had  left  word  for  him  to  follow  as 
quickly  as  he  could.  Dr.  Truman  examined  the 
patient  carefully,  and  questioned  Pauline  and  her 
sons  rigidly. 

"It  has  been  threatening  for  weeks,"  he  said 
then.  "The  extent  of  the  damage  I  can  not  tell 
yet — the  trouble  is  purely  cerebral.  She  has  been 
worrying  and  suffering  great  mental  excitement. 
She  may  recover " 


MRS.  LACKLAXD  IS  STRICKEN  201 

Gregory  clung  to  the  foot  of  the  bed,  his  face 
as  pale  as  his  mother's  own. 

"She  may  recover,  doctor — you  mean " 

"There  is  danger,  of  course.  And  there  is  also 
a  chance " 

More  than  that  he  would  not  say.  He  wrote 
out  a  prescription,  and  Bertram  returned  with  him 
to  the  town  to  have  it  filled.  He  told  Pauline  just 
how  to  administer  the  medicine  and  to  watch  its 
effects  carefully.  Father  Eichards  came  in,  look- 
ing a  little  white  and  shaken,  for  the  past  night 
had  been  an  eventful  one,  and  he  had  been  kept 
pretty  steadily  on  his  feet.  He  spoke  to  Dr.  Tru- 
man, and  went  on  upstairs  to  Mrs.  Lackland's 
room.  Pauline  had  already  made  preparation  for 
the  giving  of  the  last  rites.  He  could  only  admin- 
ister Extreme  Unction;  then  he  exchanged  a  few 
words  with  Pauline  and  Gregory,  and  went  away, 
leaving  the  two  once  more  to  their  lonely  vigil. 

"You  must  lie  down,  Pauline,"  said  Gregory 
then.  "I  will  call  you  as  soon  as  Bertram  comes, 
and  we  will  give  her  the  medicine.  But  at  least 
save  your  strength  for  to-morrow — to-day,  I  should 
say;  it  is  almost  two  o'clock  now." 

But  though  the  girl  obeyed  him,  and  threw  her- 


202  MRS.  LACKLAND  18  STRICKEN 

self  down  on  her  bed,  it  was  not  to  sleep.  She  was 
inexpressibly  lonely.  The  scene  had  brought  back 
all  the  past;  once  more  she  looked  into  her  dying 
mother's  face,  once  more  she  knelt  at  her  dying 
mother's  bedside.  How  the  two  boys  loved  their 
mother — even  Bertram,  the  indolent,  could  not 
trust  any  other  hands  to  carry  out  the  doctor's  or- 
ders! How  Gregory  brooded  over  her,  his  eyes 
fixed  yearningly  on  the  gray  and  shadowed  face,  on 
its  cold,  pinched  features.  Yes,  she  had  her  sons — 
her  sons  who  loved  her !  She  had  been  a  cherished 
daughter,  a  cherished  wife,  she  was  a  cherished 
mother!  While  Pauline 

Ah !  Even  if  she  had  known  a  mother's  tender 
love,  that  love  was  one  of  fear  and  of  pain.  She 
had  never  known  her  mother  to  be  really  happy  or 
free  from  worry.  And  now  that  a  new  love  was 
proffered  her,  she  must  shut  her  eyes  to  it,  steal 
away  from  it  secretly,  turn  her  back  on  it  for 
ever! 

But  not  yet.  There  was  work  for  her  to  do, 
work  that  no  one  else  could  accomplish  so  faith- 
fully; work  that  no  paid  hands  could  accomplish 
more  skilfully.  She  would  do  her  duty  here — 
here,  where  generosity  and  affection  had  been  be- 


MRS.  LACKLAND  18  STRICKEN  203 

stowed  on  her,  and  when  that  duty  was  ended,  she 
would  go  as  she  had  come. 

So,  during  the  days  that  followed,  she  carried 
out  to  the  utmost  the  plan  that  she  had  laid  down. 
She  was,  indeed,  strong  as  she  knew,  as  she  felt 
herself  to  be,  and  she  proved  that  strength  in  her 
untiring  vigilance.  Gregory,  plunging  into  the 
vortex  of  business  affairs,  brought  his  brother  with 
him.  In  spite  of  their  wishes,  their  desires,  both 
brothers  were  forced  to  spend  hours  away  from 
that  quiet  bedside.  But  silently,  quietly,  with  the 
precision  of  an  automaton,  and  the  skill  born  of 
her  great  longing  to  repay  this  woman  for  some  of 
that  good  which  she  had  bestowed  upon  her, 
Pauline  Faulkner  remained,  an  ever-present  min- 
istering spirit,  obeying  with  preciseness  the  slight- 
est order  of  the  physician,  and  caring  for  Laura 
Lackland  as  only  a  tender-hearted  woman  can  care 
for  another.  In  all  that  time,  however  she  accom- 
plished it,  Mrs.  Lackland  never  woke  from  her 
brief  slumbers  to  miss  the  girl  from  her  side.  She 
was  conscious  always  of  her  presence,  her  care,  her 
unremitting  attention. 

A  fortnight  elapsed,  in  which  Laura  Lackland 
hovered  between  life  and  death.  The  doctor  did 


204  SIRS.  LACKLAND  18  STRICKEN 

not  despair  of  her,  although  he  held  out  no  hope. 
Her  spirit  fluttered,  as  it  were,  to  be  gone,  but  her 
indomitable  will  seemed  to  keep  it  within  her  body. 

"She  has  a  powerful  desire  to  live,"  said  Dr. 
Truman  one  day.  "Her  will  is  greater  than  her 
physical  strength,  and  that  is  a  great  help  to  us 
now.  Her  will,  and  yours,  Miss  Pauline." 

And  every  day  brought  Gregory  and  the  girl 
closer  together,  though  no  word  of  tenderness  or 
love  passed  between  them.  To  Pauline  such  a 
word  would  have  been  sacrilege.  Between  them, 
forevermore,  dead  or  living,  was  that  mother's  op- 
position, to  Pauline  a  barrier  insuperable. 

Then,  slowly  at  first,  so  slowly  that  they  thought 
it  was  a  turn  for  the  worse,  came  the  turning  for 
the  better.  Inch  by  inch  she  crept  back  to  life. 
Almost  imperceptibly,  halting  speech  came  to  that 
inert  tongue,  and  presently,  a  little  movement  to 
the  heavy  limbs.  Dr.  Truman  was  jubilant.  It 
was  a  rare  recovery,  he  told  her  sons — a  recovery, 
due  not  only,  after  God,  to  his  skill,  but  to  Miss 
Faulkner's  care. 

"Without  her  I  could  have  done  nothing,  abso- 
lutely nothing,"  he  said. 

The  weeks  went  by.    Christmas  passed  with  very 


MRS.  LACKLAND  IS  STRICKEN  205 

little  of  the  gay  observance  accorded  the  feast. 
January  slipped  on.  In  February  Mrs.  Lackland 
was  able  to  sit  at  her  window.  As  she  grew  stronger 
Gregory  would  have  consulted  her  about  factory 
affairs,  but  she  would  not  listen. 

"I  am  finished,"  she  said  quietly.  "Do  as  you 
think  best — you  and  Bertram.  My  work  is  almost 
done.  God  gave  me  back  my  life  for  one 
great  purpose.  When  it  is  accomplished  I  am 
going/' 

He  looked  at  her,  wondering  a  little.  These 
vague  words  were  but  the  result  of  her  weakness, 
her  illness.  As  for  that  which  he  had  accomplished 
he  was  satisfied.  He  had  no  fear  that  she  would 
find  fault  with  results. 

One  sunny,  beautiful  day  toward  the  latter  part 
of  the  month  Pauline  coaxed  her  patient  to  go 
downstairs  to  the  terrace.  She  read  aloud  to  her 
a  great  deal,  and  Mrs.  Lackland  took  great  pleas- 
ure in  listening.  But  this  day  her  thoughts  were 
not  her  own,  and  more  than  once  her  eyes  sought 
the  young  girl  with  a  tenderness  in  their  depths  that 
seemed  painful.  Presently  Pauline  slipped  a  mark 
between  the  pages  and  put  the  book  on  her  lap. 

"Yon  are  almost  well,  Aunt  Laura,"  she  said. 


206  MRS.  LACKLAXD  18  STRICKEN 

"Almost,  my  dear  child.  I  doubt  if  I  shall  ever 
be  altogether  well/' 

"There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  be," 
said  the  girl  gently.  "Dr.  Truman  gives  us  every 
hope.  In  a  year  you  will  not  know  you  ever  were 
ill." 

"A  year !"  echoed  Mrs.  Lackland  softly.  "I  have 
been  sick  over  four  months.  The  night  I  was 
stricken  I  thought  myself  the  most  important  per- 
son in  the  world — I  thought  that  my  particular 
part  of  it  could  not  go  one  day  without  me! 
Twenty-four  hours  without  me!"  She  laughed 
softly,  as  if  to  herself.  "Yet  it  has  existed  four 
months — and  must  exist  another  year !" 

"When  summer  comes  everything  will  be  differ- 
ent," said  Pauline  gently.     "You  must  not  be  de- 
spondent.    We  are  too  grateful  to  God,  who  has 
given  you  back  to  us,  to  feel  the  least  repining." 
"Yes,  Pauline  ?    Are  you  really  glad  ?" 
"Oh,  dear  Aunt  Laura,  you  know." 
"Yes,  I  know.    It  was  a  foolish  question/1 
"But  I  must  leave  you,"  said  Pauline  then.  "Not 
yet — oh,  not  until  you  are  strong  and  can  do  with- 
out me.    But  then  ...  I  shall  go." 
"What  will  you  do?" 


MRS.  LACKLAND  18  STRICKEN  207 

"I  will  find  my  place." 

'Tour  place !  You  have  reached  your  journey's 
end,  Pauline — your  place  is  here  with  me,  all  the 
days  that  we  two  shall  live.  Or  do  you  seek  re- 
venge?" 

"Revenge?"  The  girl  looked  at  her,  start- 
led. 

"My  strong  desire  brought  me  back  to  life/'  said 
Mrs.  Lackland  tenderly,  "and  shall  I  tell  you  what 
that  was  ?  The  desire  to  do  right  by  you,  Pauline. 
I  have  insulted  you  bitterly,  have  made  you  suffer, 
my  sweet,  my  sensitive  girl !  And  yet,  when  you 
came  to  me  that  night,  I  shall  never  forget  your 
look,  the  tone  of  your  voice,  the  clasp  of  your  arms ! 
I  can  close  my  eyes  and  see  it  all,  and  I  hear  truth 
in  your  words,  truth  and  love  for  me,  calling  me, 
who  had  spoken  such  bitter  words  to  you,  cmy  dear- 
est, my  best  friend !'  Those  words  were  the  secret 
of  my  getting  well,  Pauline." 

The  girl  could  not  speak.  She  was  crying  si- 
lently. Mrs.  Lackland  lifted  her  thin  hand  and 
touched  her  gently. 

"Dear,  you  will  not  let  anger  and  pride  stand 
between  us  now  ?  I  want  you  for  my  own.  I  want 
you  for  the  daughter  that  heaven  denied  me  once, 


208  MRS.  LACKLAXD  IS  STRICKEN 

to  send  me  in  you.  Will  you  be  my  own  child, 
Pauline,  my  dear  boy's  wife  ?" 

Pauline  slipped  on  her  knees  beside  the  invalid's 
chair,  and  looked  into  her  face  with  eyes  that 
pierced  her  soul. 

"It  is  not — you  are  not  saying  this  because  of 
anything  I  have  done " 

"As  I  hope  for  peace  eternal,  no,  my  dearest 
child.  To  say  this  is  the  only  reason  God  allowed 
me  to  get  well.  Ah !  I  was  very  near  the  brink, 
Pauline,  but  I  dared  not  die — not  until  I  had  un- 
done the  evil  I  had  wrought.  For  I  knew  that  I 
would  stand  ever  as  a  shadow  between  your  two 
hearts.  Forgive,  forgive!" 

And  Pauline  had  no  words  to  say  to  her,  but  the 
clasp  of  her  arms  sufficed. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HELEN  IS  DEFIANT 

AFTER  the  terrible  events  of  that  evening,  when 
the  news  of  the  fire  at  Lyndhurst  had  reached  her, 
coupled  with  the  report  that  an  attempt  had  been 
made  on  Gregory's  life,  and  that  Mrs.  Lackland 
was  dying,  Marion  Sigogne  visited  Lyndhurst. 
She  had  not  meant  ever  to  go  near  the  Lackland 
home  again,  and  already  preparations  for  her  de- 
parture were  in  progress.  But  of  this  latter  part 
she  said  nothing  to  the  Lacklands.  She  was  pleas- 
antly sympathetic  to  both  young  men,  and  her  man- 
ner could  be  so  unaffected,  so  guileless,  that  all  her 
tender  words  passed  for  true  coin.  Bertram  was 
delighted.  He  felt  that  that  one  little  unpleasant- 
ness would  soon  be  forgotten.  Gregory  was  indif- 
ferent, save  as  her  attitude  affected  Bertram.  The 
fact  that  she  adopted  her  usual  friendliness  of  man- 
ner argued  little  in  his  eyes. 

She  sent  over  every  morning  to  inquire,  and 
called  again  later  in  the  week.  But  on  neither  of 

these  occasions  did  Helen  accompany  her,  and  no 
209 


J 


210  HELEN  18  DEFIANT 

inquiries  on  Bertram's  part  elicited  any  but  the 
most  meager  information.  She  was  well,  but  busy. 
She  would  come  later,  perhaps. 

Needless  to  say  she  did  not  come,  and  soon  Ber- 
tram heard  that  the  Sigognes  had  left  The  Pines. 
This,  his  first  great  disappointment,  did  much  to 
sober  the  young  man.  He  grew  grave  and  thought- 
ful and  more  like  Gregory  in  his  manner,  while 
Gregory,  seeing  history  repeat  itself  in  this  treat- 
ment, opened  his  heart  more  fully  to  his  brother, 
and  showed  him  how  his  own  early  and  mis- 
placed affection  had  changed  all  his  outlook  on 
life. 

"That  may  be,"  said  Bertram  quietly,  "but  this 
is  not  Helen's  fault.  She  is  not  yet  eighteen  years 
old.  If  she  forgets  me  I  can  not  blame  her." 

"If  she  ccm  forget  you  it  is  better  that  nothing 
comes  of  your  affection,"  said  Gregory  gently. 

"A  young  and  beautiful  girl  can  be  easily  dis- 
tracted," said  Bertram.  "Besides — who  knows 
what  tales  she  has  been  told  ?" 

This  was  only  too  true,  and  Gregory  had  nothing 
to  say  to  it.  He  thought,  also,  that  Bertram  him- 
self would  soon  forget  when  the  object  of  his  adora- 
tion was  removed.  But  in  this  he  was  mistaken. 


HELEN  18  DEFIANT  211 

As  the  weeks  passed  on,  the  young  man  alluded  less 
and  less  to  the  girl,  but  when  Mrs.  Lackland  spoke 
to  her  two  sons  of  her  wish  to  see  Pauline  Gregory's 
wife  before  she  died,  and  asked  them  to  set  a  speedy 
date  for  the  wedding,  her  words  seemed  to  level  the 
barriers  that  had  hindered  speech. 

"I  wish  we  could  make  it  a  double  wedding,"  he 
said  a  little  gloomily.  Then  he  held  out  a  note  to 
his  brother.  "Read  that — both  of  you." 

"Dear  Bertram,"  it  began.  "We  are  coming 
home  for  a  fortnight  to  The  Pines.  Mother  has 
forbidden  me  to  let  any  one  know,  but  I  do  not 
think  she  is  right.  Won't  you  please  try  to  see  me 
before  we  go  away?" 

Pauline  read  it  silently.  Gregory  read  it  and 
handed  it  back. 

"That  does  not  look  as  if  she  has  forgotten," 
he  said  gravely.  "I  think  your  Helen  is  the  right 
sort." 

"I  have  known  it  always,"  said  the  young  man 
proudly. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do?" 

"I  mean  to  ride  over  there  in  a  few  days  and  ask 
to  see  her." 

"And  if  Mrs.  Sigogne  refuses  to  allow  it?" 


212  HELEN  IS  DEFIANT 

"Then  I  shall  call  on  you  for  assistance/'  an- 
swered Bertram  without  a  smile. 

The  following  Saturday  Bertram  called  at  The 
Pines.  Marion  Sigogne  herself  saw  him  in  the 
drawing-room. 

"This  is  a  surprise,"  she  said  pleasantly  enough, 
"but  one  that  I  am  afraid  I  can  not  return,  as  I 
am  only  here  on  business  and  will  have  to  return 
at  once.  Helen  ?  Oh,  Helen  is  still  in  the  city — 
she  did  not  care  to  come,  especially  since  mj  stay 
is  to  be  so  short." 

"Well,"  said  Bertram,  relating  this  to  his  brother, 
"Mrs.  Sigogne's  objection  to  me  was  solely  because 
I  had  no  prospects  or  no  settled  income.  Now  I 
have  both.  Gregory,  I  want  you,  as  the  head  of 
our  house,  to  call  on  her  and  make  a  formal  de- 
mand for  Helen's  hand  in  marriage." 

"That's  cool,"  said  Gregory,  laughing  in  spite 
of  himself. 

"It  may  be — it  may  sound  so.  But  you  can  talk 
statistics,  which  would  not  sound  well  from  me. 
Will  you  do  this?" 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Gregory,  "although,"  with 
a  faint  smile,  "I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  no  more  suc- 
cess than  you " 


HELEN  18  DEFIANT  213 

"I  want  a  decided  answer,"  said  the  young  man. 
"I  shall  know  how  to  act  then." 

Keenly  curious  as  she  was  to  find  out  all  that 
had  happened  at  Lyndhurst,  Marion  Sigogne  would 
not  question  Bertram.  She  would  not  display  a 
wish  to  learn  anything  about  their  affairs,  so  be- 
yond the  bare  inquiry  concerning  Mrs.  Lackland 
she  said  nothing.  However,  on  the  morning  that 
Gregory  drove  over  she  had  heard  of  his  engage- 
ment to  Pauline.  A  sullen  spirit  had  been  smolder- 
ing in  Marion  Sigogne's  heart  since  that  last  in- 
terview with  the  two  brothers  in  November,  and 
this  news,  confirming  what  she  already  knew  to  be 
the  truth,  awoke  a  desire  for  revenge.  If  Gregory 
Lackland  could  prefer  a  nobody,  one  whose  father 
probably  had  a  price  on  his  head,  the  associate  of 
lawbreakers — well,  he  could  have  her ! 

She  had  been  thinking  thoughts  of  this  descrip- 
tion when  Gregory's  name  was  given  to  her.  For 
the  moment  she  meant  to  decline  to  see  him,  but 
then  she  changed  her  mind.  She  swept  into  the 
room,  proud,  haughty,  self-possessed,  beautiful. 

"You  surprise  me  pleasantly,"  she  said  in  her 
clear  tones.  "I  did  not  expect  such  an  honor." 

'Thank  you,"  he  answered,  bowing.    "I  am  here 


214  HELEN  IS  DEFIANT 

to-day  on  a  very  important  affair,  Mrs.  Sigogne." 
And  then,  without  preamble,  he  stated  Bertram's 
wishes,  and  gave  her  succinctly  some  of  his  ideas 
and  plans  for  the  future.  She  listened  in  silence, 
resting  her  two  elbows  on  the  arms  of  her  chair, 
her  fingers  interlocked  idly. 

"That  is  nice,"  she  said.  "But  you  and  Ber- 
tram also  forget  that  Helen  does  not  know  her  own 
mind.  She  is  barely  eighteen.  It  is  not  fair  to 
bind  a  girl  of  that  age,  a  child  who  should  still  be 
in  the  school-room " 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Sigogne,  no  one  is  asking  for  an 
early  marriage,"  interrupted  Gregory. 

"Father  Richards  would  surely  not  approve  of  a 
long  engagement,"  said  Mrs.  Sigogne  mockingly. 

"Under  these  circumstances?  Why  not?  The 
young  people  will  see  little  of  each  other.  If  they 
desire  to  correspond,  allow  it — it  is  not  good  to 
have  anything  like  that  done  in  an  underhand 
manner.  Let  the  engagement  be  merely  implied, 
if  you  will,  for  the  next  three  years.  In  that  time 
Bertram  will  be  a  husband  worth  having  if  he  de- 
velops as  he  has  done  since  meeting  Helen." 

"You  plead  excellently,"  she  said.  "Your 
brother,  displaying  fine  business  acumen,  knew  how 


HELEN  18  DEFIANT  215 

to  make  use  of  his  opportunities.  In  winning  my 
daughter's  affections  he  did  not  fail  to  grasp  the 
fact  that  she  inherited  a  good  portion  of  her 
father's  wealth." 

Gregory  rose  at  once. 

"That  is  scarcely  necessary,"  he  said.  "I  need 
scarcely  remind  you  that  Bertram  is  not  penniless. 
Money  is  not  the  thing  to  be  considered  in  the 
choice  of  a  wife." 

Marion  burst  out  laughing. 

"I  see !"  she  said.  "You  are  evidently  speaking 
from  experience.  A  good  name,  spotless  reputa- 
tion, proper  upbringing — all  these  are  of  lit- 
tle value,  either,  I  suppose?  Especially  for 
you?" 

"Good-morning,"  said  Gregory.  He  was  pale  as 
a  sheet.  The  lady  looked  at  him  serenely,  not  an 
eyelash  quivering  under  the  glance  of  utter  con- 
tempt he  gave  her.  He  left  the  room  and  the 
house.  As  he  went  down  the  steps,  he  saw  Helen 
standing  at  Soliman's  head,  patting  the  horse  ten- 
derly. She  was  quite  pale,  Gregory  thought,  and 
her  beautiful  little  face  seemed  thinner  than  usual. 
She  gave  him  one  hand  frankly,  but  continued  to 
rub  Soliman's  velvet  nose  with  the  other. 


216  HELEN  18  DEFIANT 

"It's  good  just  to  get  a  look  at  the  horse,"  she 
said,  smiling.  "You  have  seen  my  mother  ?" 

"Yes,  Helen.  We  understood  3^011  were  in  the 
city." 

"Oh,  did  you  I"  She  opened  her  eyes  in  aston- 
ishment. 

"Bertram  was  here  some  days  ago  and  was  given 
to  understand  that  you  had  not  come  to  The 
Pines." 

"Did  he  see — Mrs.  Sigogne  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  ?  Why  did  you  come  here  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"On  a  little  errand  of  Bertram's,"  he  said  eva- 
sively. 

"Oh!  I  understand!"  She  was  very  quick  of 
comprehension.  Two  spots  of  color  flashed  into  her 
cheeks.  "Will  you  tell  .  .  .  your  brother,  Greg- 
ory, that  I  shall  bring  him  my  answer  myself  ?" 

"My  dear  Helen " 

"I  must  and  I  shall  see  Bertram,"  she  said, 
stamping  her  foot.  "There  is  nothing  wrong  in 
calling  on  your  mother  or  on  Pauline  ?  No  ?  Very 
well.  Please  ask  your  mother  to  expect  me." 

She  turned  toward  the  house.    Marion  Sigogne 


HELEN  IS  DEFIANT  217 

had  been  standing  at  the  window.  She  had  seen 
the  meeting,  and  it  angered  her. 

"Helen !"  she  called,  as  the  girl  passed  the  open 
door.  "Come  in  here — I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Helen  hesitated  a  moment.  Then  she  entered 
the  room,  rebellious,  defiant. 

"You  were  talking  to  Gregory  Lackland  ?" 

"Yes.    I  gave  him  a  message  for  his  mother/' 

"Let  it  end  at  that,  then." 

"Oh,  but  I  told  him  I  was  going  to  call  on  her." 

"You  can  not  call  at  Lyndhurst  while  Pauline 
Faulkner  is  there.  I  will  not  have  you  associate 
with  her." 

"I  am  sure  Gregory  would  not  ask  Pauline  to 
marry  him  if  she  were  not  a  thoroughly  good  girl," 
said  Helen  tempestuously.  "I  think  all  these 
things  you've  been  telling  me  about  her  are  not 
true.  She  is  just  as  sweet  as  she  can  be." 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  telling  untruths." 

"Then  why  did  you  tell  Bertram  that  I  was  still 
in  the  city — that  I  had  not  come  to  The  Pines  ?" 

"Because  I  wanted  to  save  you  much  trouble  and 
annoyance,"  said  Marion  Sigogne.  "If  you  would 
only  be  sensible " 

"I  have  been  thoroughly  miserable  since  you've 


218  HELEN  18  DEFIANT 

tried  to  make  me  sensible,"  said  Helen,  repressing 
a  sob  with  difficulty.  "Bertram  and  Pauline  and  I 
were  so  happy!  And  now  everything  is  upset. 
...  At  any  rate,  I'm  going  to  Lyndhurst." 

"I  forbid  you  to  go — absolutely  forbid  you  to 
go,"  said  her  stepmother  hotly.  "Let  that  be  the 
last  word  on  the  subject  now,  or  you  go  back  to  the 
convent/' 

"At  least  I  was  happy  and  contented  there,"  said 
Helen.  "I  had  a  home — which  is  more  than  I  have 
had  in  a  good  while,  running  about  from  one  place 
to  the  other.  Do  please  send  me  back.  I  know 
Mother  Patrick  will  be  only  too  glad  to  have  me." 

Then  Helen  left  the  room,  went  up  the  stairs, 
and  changed  her  outdoor  dress,  putting  on  her  rid- 
ing-habit. She  had  not  the  slightest  fear  of  her 
stepmother,  and,  docile  in  almost  everything,  ab- 
solutely refused  to  obey  when  she  considered  her 
obedience  uncalled  for.  Ten  minutes  later  she  was 
in  the  stable. 

"Saddle  my  horse,  Dan,"  she  said  to  the  hostler. 

In  five  minutes  more  she  was  well  on  her  way  to 
Lyndhurst.  She  gave  little  thought  to  her  actions, 
but  hardly  had  she  reached  the  great  gate  that  led 
to  the  Lackland  mansion  when  a  doubt  assailed 


HELEN  18  DEFIANT  219 

her.  She  drew  her  horse  in  quickly.  What  would 
she  do — what  must  she  do  now.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it 
was  not  right  .  .  .  unmaidenly.  .  .  .  And 
then  a  joyous  voice  called  her  name,  and  the  next 
moment  Bertram  was  at  her  side. 

"Helen!  Helen!  I  can  scarcely  believe  my 
eyes !  It  is  really  you,  my  dear  girl !  Come,  let 
me  help  you  down.  How  pleased  mother  will  be ! 
She  was  talking  of  you  only  a  half -hour  ago — wish- 
ing she  could  see  you !" 

"Here  I  am,"  laughed  Helen  gayly.  "I  prom- 
ised Gregory  I  would  bring  the  answer  myself — I 
have  brought  it." 

"The  answer!  The  answer!"  He  caught  her 
cold  little  hands  in  his,  and  his  face  was  dazzling. 
"Helen,  my  own  darling,  what  is  the  answer  ?  Not 
unfavorable  or  you  would  not  bring  it.  You  will 
marry  me?  And  soon?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  her  face  scarlet.  She  did 
not  lift  her  eyes  to  his.  He  carried  her  hand  to  his 
lips. 

"My  darling!  My  own  darling!  Believe  me, 
you  will  never,  never  regret  it." 

There  was  a  tender  reverence  in  his  voice.  Helen 
realized  that  her  boy  lover  had  disappeared,  that 


220  HELEN  18  DEFIANT 

Bertram  was  suddenly  a  man,  and  she  felt  that  his 
love  for  her  had  made  him  so.  A  sensation  of  ex- 
quisite happiness  filled  her.  She  scarcely  knew 
how  she  reached  the  great  stone  terrace  on  which 
sat  Mrs.  Lackland,  with  Pauline  beside  her.  Ber- 
tram led  her  directly  to  his  mother. 

"Bless  us,  dearest  mother/'  he  said,  in  a  trem- 
bling voice.    "Helen  has  promised  to  marry  me." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MRS.  SIGOGNE  HAS  A  VISITOR 

MARION  SIGOGNE  had  been  expecting  a  visitor  all 
morning — one  that  she  had  thought  to  see  enter 
at  any  time  during  Gregory's  short  stay,  and  one 
whom  she  did  not  wish  him  to  meet.  She  was  play- 
ing idly  on  the  piano,  going  over  snatches  of  dif- 
ferent airs,  when  he  was  at  last  announced. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  changed  your  mind  about  that 
foreign  appointment/'  she  said  now,  giving  him 
her  hand  with  every  appearance  of  frank  cordiality. 

"I  was  surprised  to  get  your  note — how  did  you 
know  I  was  in  town?  I  came  back  only  last 
night " 

She  shook  her  finger  at  him  playfully. 

"I  hear  many  things,"  she  said,  with  a  low  laugh. 
"It  is  because  of  one  of  the  things  I  heard  that  I 
sent  for  you." 

He  glanced  toward  the  door. 

"Oh,  you  need  not  be  afraid — there  is  no  one 
about.  Helen  has  just  gone  to  her  room  in  a 

rage  because  I  will  not  let  her  marry  Bertram 
221 


222  MRS.  8IGOGXE  BA8  A  VISITOR 

Lackland."  She  laughed  again,  but  there  was  a 
note  of  irony  in  the  laugh  this  time.  Julian  Stan- 
hope lifted  his  eyebrows  cynically. 

"Then  I  must  have  seen  Helen's  ghost  dashing 
past  me  as  fast  as  her  horse  could  carry  her  toward 
Lyndhurst." 

Marion  Sigogne  looked  at  him,  astounded,  be- 
fore she  rang  the  bell  sharply. 

"Find  out  if  Miss  Helen  has  left  the  house/'  she 
said  to  the  butler. 

"Yes,  madam — she  left  about  five  minutes  ago." 

"That  is  all."  She  smiled  at  Julian  Stanhope. 
"I  am  very  sorry  you  will  not  see  her,"  she  said. 
This  was  for  the  benefit  of  the  servant.  When  he 
left  the  room  her  expression  changed  completely. 
"I  shall  deal  with  her  later  on,"  she  said.  "At 
present — do  you  know  that  Gregory  Lackland  is 
engaged  to  Pauline  Faulkner  ?" 

For  a  moment  the  steely  blue  eyes  met  hers. 
They  said  nothing  that  she  could  interpret. 

"That  is  news  indeed,"  he  said.  "When,  may  I 
ask,  did  this  occur?" 

"I  heard  it  some  hours  ago." 

"Some  hours  ago !    Had  you  suspected  it?" 

"I   suspected   that  he  cared  for  her — but  I 


MRS.  8IOOONE  HAS  A  VISITOR  223 

thought  that  Mrs.  Lackland  would  never  give  her 
consent  to  the  match.  I  do  not  think  she  would 
now  if  -  " 


"You  understand  me,  I  am  sure.  That  —  that 
creature  !  Pardon  me,  if  I  offend  you  —  I  believe 
that  you  at  one  time  cared  for  her?  But  I  feel 
this  very  much.  She  has  hated  me  from  the  be- 
ginning, I  know  —  and  I  assure  you  that  I  return 
her  feeling.  She  is  insufferable." 

Julian  Stanhope  examined  his  polished  nails 
very  carefully. 

"What  would  you  suggest?"  he  said,  then,  in 
smooth  accents.  "Are  you  sure  —  Now,  about  hat- 
ing you  —  Do  you  think  that  ?" 

Marion  Sigogne  gave  him  a  curious  glance  —  that 
slow,  drawling  tone  seemed  utterly  unlike  his 
usual  crisp  voice.  Then  she  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

"Surely  there  is  something  —  I  know  she  is  not 
of  creditable  people.  .  .  .  There  is  something  in 
her  past.  ...  It  might  be  made  impossible  for 
her  to  marry  -  " 

"I  see  —  I  understand  now.  I'm  glad  you  sent 
for  me." 


224  MRS.  8IOOGNE  HAS  A  VISITOR 

She  smiled,  gratified. 

"I  thought  I  had  not  misplaced  my  confidence. 
May  I  depend  on  you?" 

"Yes — if  I  can  depend  on  you.  I  am  not  in  a 
position,  just  at  present,  to  pay  the  price  that  some 
people  will  expect.  I  believe  that  one  man  has 
been  bought  off  by  the  Lacklands  already.  Would 
you  like  to  know  how  much  they  paid  him  ?" 

Her  eyes  sparkled. 

"Tell  me,  tell  me,"  she  exclaimed. 

"Twenty-five  thousand  dollars." 

"Twenty-five  thousand  dollars!"  she  breathed. 
"The  Lacklands  bought  him  off !  Oh,  then,  there 
must  be  something  .  .  .  you  know  what  I  mean. 
There  must  be  more  to  this  than  I  have  surmised. 
How  did  you  find  out?" 

"I  have  my  own  way  of  learning  such  things.  I 
may  as  well  tell  you  that  there  never  was  a  question 
of  diplomatic  appointment  with  me — I  had  some- 
thing else  in  view  when  I  brought  up  that  possi- 
bility." 

"But  Judge  Masterson " 

"I  made  sure  that  rumors  of  it  would  reach  him 
from  authentic  sources.  When  I  cover  ground  I 
cover  it  thoroughly." 


MRS.  SIGOGNE  HAS  A   VISITOR  225 

"I — see,"  she  hesitated  a  moment.  "As  to 
money " 

"Old  Sigogne  left  four  or  five  million,  I  be- 
lieve/' was  the  cool  reply,  "divided  equally  between 
wife  and  daughter." 

"You  are  right.  You  can  let  me  know  from 
time  to  time  what  is  necessary." 

"Thank  you.  You  may  expect  results — well, 
shortly.  I  suppose  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  ex- 
plain the  different  processes " 

"No — I  am  only  interested  in  the  outcome.  You 
have  our  city  address.  My  business  here  will  be 
finished  to-morrow.  I  shall  not  stay  longer." 

She  pondered  a  long  while  after  Julian  Stan- 
hope left  her,  weighing  all  things  carefully,  and 
considering,  in  the  light  of  this  new  ally,  what  her 
attitude  should  be  toward  Helen  and  the  Lack- 
lands.  She  had  not  expected  such  prompt  assist- 
ance from  Julian  Stanhope,  though  she  had 
known  that  his  interest  in  Pauline  Faulkner  was  of 
remoter  date  than  that  of  their  first  meeting  dur- 
ing the  past  twelve-month.  He  had  implied  that 
much  to  her  always,  and  she  also  knew  that  in  spite 
of  his  assumption  of  coldness  he  was  very  much 
in  love  with  her.  So  at  least  she  was  sure  of  his 


226  MRS.  SIGOGXE  HAS  A  VISITOR 

personal  interest  in  the  affair — a  thing  that  could 
not  be  bought. 

She  greeted  Helen  mildly  when,  an  hour  later, 
she  turned  in  at  The  Pines'  entrance,  and  cantered 
up  to  the  door,  Bertram  escorting  her.  As  they 
passed  the  steps  on  the  way  to  the  stable,  Marion 
stepped  out  on  the  terrace. 

"Just  a  minute/'  she  said.  She  went  down  to 
them,  with  a  searching  glance  into  the  defiant  and 
beautiful  face.  "Perhaps  I  have  been  a  little  too 
hard  on  you  children,"  she  went  on  gently.  "You 
must  forgive  me  for  it.  Bertram,  we  are  leaving 
The  Pines  to-morrow  afternoon,  but  you  can  come 
over  in  the  morning  if  you  wish.  I  hear  you  are 
a  business  man  now,  but  perhaps  Gregory  will  spare 
you  for  an  hour  or  two." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  will  consent — "  began 
the  young  man  impetuously.  She  raised  her  hand. 

"Wait  a  while — we  shall  see.  I  want  Helen  to 
be  happy.  I  will  consent  to  an  engagement,  if  you 
give  me  your  word  that  there  will  be  no  talk  of  mar- 
riage between  you — for  a  time  at  least." 

"I  can  promise  that,  mother,"  said  Helen 
quickly.  "And  you  will,  too,  won't  you,  Bertram  ?" 

"I  will  promise,"  he  answered,  smiling.    "You 


MRS.  SIGOGNE  HAS  A  VISITOR  227 

have  made  me  very  happy,  Mrs.  Sigogne.  You 
will  allow  Helen  to  write  to  me  ?" 

"Yes — on  condition  that  she  doesn't  write  more 
than  three  letters  a  day,"  said  the  lady,  with  a 
charming  smile.  "Shall  we  shake  hands  on  it, 
Bertram?" 

They  shook  hands  warmly  and  parted,  and  Ber- 
tram went  home  filled  with  happiness,  bubbling 
over  with  delight.  All  might  have  been  as  of  old 
between  the  Sigognes  and  the  Lacklands  were  it 
not  for  that  one  remark  by  which  Marion  Sigogne 
had  shown  her  bitterness  toward  Pauline  Faulkner. 
It  rankled  in  Gregory's  heart  like  a  thorn.  He 
could  not  forget  it — he  felt  that  he  would  never 
forgive  it. 

Whether  or  not  it  was  as  Laura  Lackland  had 
said — whether  her  desire  to  right  what  she  felt  had 
been  a  wrong,  toward  one  who  loved  her  and  whom 
she  truly  loved,  had  brought  back  her  strength  tem- 
porarily, no  one  could  tell.  But  at  any  rate  her 
recovery  had  reached  its  zenith  on  that  day  when 
she  gave  Pauline,  gladly,  freely,  lovingly  to  her 
son.  From  then  on,  little  by  little,  step  by  step, 
inch  by  inch,  just  as  she  had  gained  in  strength, 
she  lost  it.  At  first  it  was  imperceptible,  as  the 


228  MRS.  SIGOGNE  HAS  A  VISITOR 

gaining  had  been.  Two  weeks  after  that  happy 
day,  it  struck  Pauline,  suddenly,  that  the  mother 
appeared  more  languid  than  usual.  They  were 
getting  ready  for  church,  and  it  seemed  to  the  girl 
that  she  rested  longer  and  at  more  frequent  inter- 
vals. It  had  been  her  habit  to  drive  daily  to  Mass 
since  she  had  been  able  to  leave  her  bed,  for,  as 
her  hold  on  life  lessened,  she  leaned  more  toward 
things  spiritual.  Her  beads  never  left  her  fingers. 
She  carried  with  her,  from  room  to  room,  from 
terrace  to  garden,  the  prayer-book  in  which  that 
good  and  great  priest,  Father  Lasance,  himself  ac- 
quainted well  with  sickness  and  distress,  has  gath- 
ered so  many  beautiful  prayers  to  help  those  who 
need  just  such  spiritual  comfort.  As  the  veil  be- 
tween her  and  the  other  world  seemed  to  sway 
slightly,  she  was  filled  with  great  yearning  to  be 
done  with  all  material  things.  Father  Richards, 
with  a  brow  from  which  the  wrinkles  of  care 
seemed  to  have  magically  disappeared,  so  happy 
was  he  over  the  renewed  prosperity  of  his  flock, 
preached  this  Sunday  morning.  He  had  chosen 
that  tender  text  "Come  unto  Me,"  and  his  heart 
was  in  the  words. 
Laura  Lackland  seemed  to  drink  in  every  word 


MRS.  8IGOGXE  HAS  A  VISITOR  229 

of  that  sermon.  She  sat  back  silently  during  the 
long  drive  home  to  Lyndhurst.  As  she  went  up 
the  terrace  steps,  she  paused  and  looked  about  her 
— a  long,  sweeping,  almost  loving  glance.  And 
then  she  touched  Gregory  on  the  arm. 

"Look  with  me,  my  son — let  us  look  at  it  to- 
gether. When  I  come  down  these  steps  again,  my 
feet  will  not  touch  them." 

"My  dear  mother!  What  a  thing  to  say!"  he 
exclaimed.  But  she  pressed  his  arm  tightly. 

"Be  as  good  a  man  as  your  father  was — and  love 
God  better  than  your  mother  did.  I  am  sorry  now. 
I  have  wasted  many  years  that  might  have  been 
spent  in  the  pure  love  of  God.  I  see  my  folly. 
Love  God — and  teach  Pauline,  who  has  had  so  lit- 
tle good  in  her  luckless  life,  to  love  Him  better,  by 
your  example/' 

Gregory  could  make  no  answer.  He  was  very 
fond  of  his  mother,  but  her  illness  had  filled  him 
with  a  passionate  tenderness  toward  her.  A  mois- 
ture dimmed  his  eyes  which  he  would  not  let  her 
see,  but  the  pressure  of  his  arm  about  her  spoke  for 
him.  Very  gently  and  lovingly  he  went  with  her 
to  her  own  room.  No  servant  was  ever  permitted 
to  do  a  single  thing  for  her — he  or  Bertram  or 


230  MRS.  8IGOGNE  HAS  A  VISITOR 

Pauline  was  always  ready  to  anticipate  her  wishes. 
She  sat  down  exhausted  in  an  easy-chair,  while 
Pauline  slipped  off  her  coat  and  hat,  and  Bertram 
got  her  slippers. 

"What  children,  what  children !"  she  smiled.  "I 
never  appreciated  them  before." 

"You've  been  doing  for  us  always,"  said  Ber- 
tram. "It  is  now  our  grateful  privilege  to  do  for 
you." 

Her  eyes  closed  in  a  tired  fashion.  Pauline 
made  a  little  sign  to  the  brothers,  and  they  went 
out  of  the  room — Gregory  to  go  down  to  the  ter- 
race, and  stand  leaning  against  its  broad  stone  pil- 
lars, filled  with  anxiety  and  foreboding.  Pauline 
joined  him  there  a  few  minutes  later.  One  look 
into  his  face  showed  her  the  trend  of  his  thoughts. 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  mother,  Pauline?** 
he  asked  in  a  low  tone. 

"I  think  she  is  very  weak,  Gregory,"  she  an- 
swered gently.  "But  then  we  must  expect  just 
such  spells  of  weakness.  She  will  gain  this  sum- 
mer, here,  surrounded  by  the  pines,  and  in  the  fall 
we  can  take  her  away — with  us." 

She  blushed  faintly  as  she  concluded  the  sen- 
tence. 


MRS.  SIGOGNE  HAS  A  VISITOR  231 

"That  is  a  happy  thought,  dear.  But  she  may 
not  consent." 

"Then  we  shall  not  go,"  said  Pauline  promptly. 
"There  is  no  consideration  that  would  take  me 
away  from  her  while  she  needs  either  of  us.  She 
is  exhausted  now — this  illness  has  drained  her 
strength,  and  possibly  she  has  been  getting  about 
too  much.  We  must  be  more  careful.  You  will 
see,  Gregory,  you  will  see." 

And  then  she  led  him  to  talk  of  other  things — 
of  the  factories,  and  the  work  he  loved.  Of  Ber- 
tram and  his  future.  Of  his  plans  and  schemes. 
Of  what  had  been  accomplished,  and  was  still  to 
be  accomplished  for  the  people  dependent  upon 
him.  Before  he  was  aware  of  it  his  despondency 
had  taken  wings.  He  was  enthusiastic,  earnest, 
forceful,  and  she  listened  to  him  with  rare  intelli- 
gence and  sympathy.  She  took  the  burden  from 
his  heart,  but  she  could  not  lift  it  from  her  own. 
She  saw  too  clearly,  and  she  knew,  she  knew ! 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS 

THE  next  day  Laura  Lackland  did  not  leave  her 
big  chair  at  the  window.  Dr.  Truman  paid  his 
usual  morning  visit  and  examined  her  carefully, 
asking  many  pertinent  questions.  She  smiled  a 
little. 

"I  don't  think  it  will  be  very  long,"  she  said.  "I 
am  ready." 

"That  is  not  the  spirit  that  brought  you  this  far, 
my  dear  lady,"  he  answered  bluntly. 

"No,  doctor — I  had  a  purpose,  and  now  my  pur- 
pose is  fulfilled."  She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
"The  old  life  seems  so  very  far  away  from  me.  I 
know  there  was  once  a  woman  who  was  energy  to 
the  finger-tips,  who  planned  as  if  this  life  were 
everything,  as  if  another  was  not  to  come!  How 
foolish  of  her !  I  think  God  is  good  to  us  to  give 
us  time  to  see  the  disparity  between  this  and  the 
other  existence.  It  would  have  been  hard  for  that 
woman  to  die — very  hard.  For  this  woman — it  is 
very  easy." 


THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS       233 

Dr.  Truman  was  vexed.  He  had  been  proud  of 
her  recovery — it  had  been  a  wonderful  triumph 
for  him,  because  totally  unexpected,  unlocked  for. 

"You  forget  that  you  can  be  a  power  for  good  in 
many  ways/'  he  said.  "There  is  much  for  a  woman 
of  your  kind  to  do  in  this  world — and  if  you  have 
lived  for  yourself  as  long  as  you  say,  it  is  not  right 
to  stop  at  that.  Live  for  God  for  a  while  before 
you  return  to  Him,  lest  your  hands  be  empty." 

He  was  a  good  Catholic  and  he  spoke  with  feel- 
ing. She  gave  him  a  swift,  startled  glance. 

"Don't  make  me  want  to  live,"  she  said,  and 
there  was  suffering  in  her  tones.  "It  has  been  so 
easy  because  I  do  not  want  to  stay  here.  If  you 
make  it  hard  for  me — now —  Oh !  can't  you  see, 
with  all  your  skill,  the  futility  of  battling  against 
this  enemy?" 

And  as  if  the  words  had  taken  all  the  strength 
she  had  left,  her  head  dropped  back  upon  the  pil- 
low and  her  face  went  ashen.  He  took  her  hand  in 
his,  and  motioned  to  Pauline  to  give  her  some  of 
the  cordial  which  he  had  ordered  for  these  weak 
moments.  Before  he  left  she  was  much  brighter. 

He  had  been  gone  some  ten  minutes,  when  he  re- 
turned hurriedly. 


234       THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS 

"Father  Richards  gave  me  this  for  you,"  he 
said,  handing  Pauline  a  small  white  envelope.  "He 
said  it  came  with  the  rectory  mail  yesterday  in  an 
envelope  addressed,  oddly  enough,  to  the  pastor  of 
the  Catholic  church,  with  the  request  that  it  be 
delivered  into  your  own  hands.  As  he  knew  I  was 
coming  here  he  asked  me  to  attend  to  it.  I  had  al- 
most forgotten  it,  in  my  interest  in  Mrs.  Lack- 
land." 

Pauline  took  the  envelope  with  some  misgivings. 
She  received  no  outside  communications.  Letters 
from  Helen  reached  her — her  only  correspondent. 
She  did  not  know  the  stiff,  square  handwriting  on 
this  missive.  Dr.  Truman  looked  at  her  curiously 
— she  seemed  upset. 

"You  are  not  expecting  bad  news,  I  hope?"  he 
asked. 

"No,  doctor,  oh,  no !" 

"Because  in  that  case,  you  had  better  burn  your 
message.  You  will  have  no  time  for  anything  now 
but  plain  hard  work." 

"Doctor!"  Pauline  looked  at  him  aghast.  She 
had  suspected  it,  but  to  have  her  fears  put  into 
words  startled  her.  "Then  you  think " 

"She  will  not  recover  from  the  next  attack,"  he 


THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS      235 

said  gently.    "Be  prepared,  and  prepare  her  chil- 
dren." 

For  a  long  time  after  he  went  away  Pauline  sat, 
the  nnopened  letter  in  her  hands,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
vacancy.  Her  friend  was  going  to  die — slipping 
from  her,  and  she  could  not  keep  her.  A  little  sigh 
escaped  her  lips.  At  least  there  was  one  consola- 
tion. She  could  remain  with  her  to  the  end.  She 
could  make  all  things  as  easy  for  her  as  it  was  pos- 
sible for  a  pair  of  loving  hands  to  make  them.  She 
would  guard  her  night  and  day;  she  would  not 
sleep  or  eat  while  she  thought  she  could  soothe  or 
help  her:  she  would  not  think  of  anything  or  any 
one  beyond  that  room  upstairs.  Oh,  if  love  could 
pay  her  back  for  what  she  had  been  to  her,  then 
love  indeed  should  be  taxed  heavily ! 

And  so  she  took  up  the  square  white  envelope  in 
her  hand,  the  envelope  with  its  heavy,  black  writ- 
ing, and  broke  the  seal. 

***** 

It  had  grown  very  dark,  she  thought,  wearily, 
putting  her  hand  to  her  head,  and  Mrs.  Lackland 
would  be  looking  for  her.  She  tried  to  clear  the 
mists  from  her  brain,  from  her  eyes — but  they 
would  not  go.  And  then  she  suddenly  realized  that 


236  THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS 

it  had  not  grown  dark,  that  the  sun  was  shining. 
She  could  not  think  clearly.  She  rose  to  her  feet. 
Her  limbs  were  shaking,  tottering  under  her.  Why, 
what  was  this  terrible  thing  that  had  happened  to 
her  ?  What  had  happened  ? 

Her  eyes  fell  on  the  envelope  lying  at  her  feet — 
at  the  letter  beside  it.  She  shuddered  and  put  her 
hand  to  her  throat,  gasping  like  a  stricken  thing, 
her  eyes  distended,  fastened  only  on  that  letter  as 
if  it  had  been  alive. 

Oh !  She  dared  not  leave  it  there !  And  yet 
she  dared  not  touch  it !  She  dared  not,  dared 
not! 

She  stood  rigid,  her  hands  clasped  at  her  sides, 
trying  to  gain  courage,  trying  to  think  with  some 
clearness.  But  her  thoughts  would  not  be  con- 
trolled. A  terrible  fear  swept  over  her  that  her 
mind  was  wandering. 

And  then,  mechanically,  she  braced  herself  to 
the  task  that  lay  before  her.  She  walked  back  to 
the  chair,  holding  to  it  with  rigid  fingers.  But 
just  as  she  stooped  toward  the  innocent-looking 
missive,  Gregory  came  into  the  room. 

He  paused.  One  glance  at  her  white  face  was 
enough — just  one  glance. 


THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS       237 

"Pauline  !  Pauline,  my  darling !  What  is  it  ? 
What  is  the  matter?" 

She  did  not  answer  him.  He  went  to  her,  un- 
clasped her  hands  from  the  chair  and  put  his  arms 
about  her. 

"My  dear  child,  tell  me  what  has  happened." 

She  pointed  to  the  floor,  to  the  letter.  Then 
words  came. 

"0  Gregory !    Read  it,  read  it !" 

With  an  arm  about  her  still,  he  stooped  and 
picked  up  the  letter,  and  without  releasing  her, 
read  it  through.  His  grave  face  was  graver  when 
he  finished. 

"MY  DEAR  PAULINE  :"  it  began. 

"I  am  here,  in  the  city,  in  one  of  its  meanest 
streets,  hiding  from  justice,  if  you  would  call  it 
that.  Father  wrote  to  me.  Told  me  he  was  ill, 
dying,  begged  of  me  to  go  to  him.  Cyril  discov- 
ered the  letter,  and  was  about  to  give  news  of 
father's  whereabouts  to  the  society  when  I  found  it 
out.  Pauline,  the  papers  say  that  my  husband  is 
dying — dying,  but  I  could  not  help  it — I  did  not 
mean  to  kill  him.  There  was  a  boat  that  night.  I 
took  it,  and  got  away.  When  I  reached  father,  and 
told  him  all,  he  said  we  had  better  hide  away  to- 


238  THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS 

gether.  The  city  is  so  large,  so  strange,  no  one 
will  ever  find  us  here,  please  God.  But  father  can 
not  live  a  month  longer.  I  am  worn  out  taking 
care  of  him,  and  1  have  no  money.  I  have  sold 
everything.  Even  my  clothes  are  gone  now.  Paul- 
ine, won't  you  come  to  me  ?  Help  me.  Save  me. 

"I  will  not  put  my  address  here.  I  am  afraid. 
If  you  are  coming,  you  must  reach  me  on  Satur- 
day. On  that  day,  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  I 

will  stand  on  the  corner  of Street.    I  don't 

know  where  it  is,  but  I  will  find  it.     For  God's 
sake,  Pauline,  do  not  fail  me.    I  am  desperate. 
"Your  loving  sister, 

"MURIEL." 

"Saturday!"  moaned  the  girl,  through  ashen 
lips.  "Saturday — and  to-day  is  Thursday!  Oh, 
Gregory,  what  shall  we  do?" 

"Let  me  think,  my  own  dear  girl.  You  can  not 
leave  my  mother  now." 

"Gregory !"  Her  voice  was  one  of  anguish.  "At 
least  your  mother  is  surrounded  by  every  comfort. 
They  are  suffering,  in  want,  hungry,  perhaps. 
Gregory,  the  thing  terrifies  me !" 

"You  must  bring  them  here,  Pauline." 

Again  she  shrank. 


TEE  UNEXPECTED  BAPPEN&       239 

"I  could  not  do  that,  Gregory — you  have  had 
enough " 

"My  child,  they  are  your  people.  They  need 
you.  But  your  people  are  my  people  now,  and  I 
need  you.  My  mother  needs  you — she  can  not  do 
without  you.  This  house  is  hig  and  comfortable. 
Your  father,  if  he  is  really  very  ill,  needs  care  and 
attention — perhaps  care  and  attention  will  cure 
him.  My  dear  girl,  there  is  no  other  way  out  of 
it." 

She  listened  to  him,  hope  dawning  in  her  heart. 
Oh,  it  was  so  good  to  meet  difficulties  and  trials 
with  his  arms  about  her ! 

"I  shall  tell  my  mother,"  went  on  Gregory.  "She 
knows  your  father — she  will  be  glad  to  have  him 
here » 

"But  Muriel — "  said  Pauline,  shuddering.  "Do 
you  see  what  she  says  of  her  husband " 

"She  may  hardly  realize  what  her  words  con- 
vey," said  Gregory  soothingly.  "Do  not  fret  until 
you  must.  Foolish  girl!  Why  did  she  not  send 
her  address — I  would  have  been  able  to  relieve  you 
of  all  responsibility.  As  it  is,  I  am  going  with 
you." 

Mrs.  Lackland  eagerly  seconded  Gregory's  prop- 


240  THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS 

osition  to  bring  Pauline's  father  and  sister  to 
Lyndhurst,  and  so  the  frightful  gloom  that  had 
fallen  on  Pauline's  spirits  was  pierced  by  a  ray  of 
light.  She  was  indeed  fearfully  depressed — there 
was  a  sensation  of  impending  trouble  which  she 
could  not  shake  off.  Gregory  had  long  since  told 
her  he  had  disposed  of  Penniston,  and  while  he 
said  that  he  had  given  him  money,  he  did  not  say 
how  much.  She  lived  in  mortal  terror  of  the  man 
who  had  been  so  cruelly  mixed  up  in  her  life,  and 
the  thought  of  traveling  alone  to  the  city  was  only 
a  shade  less  fearful  than  her  horror  of  meeting 
Penniston.  It  was  a  wonderful  relief  to  feel  that 
Gregory  would  be  near  her. 

"I  will  not  say  anything  to  him,"  she  thought, 
going  over  the  thing  in  her  own  mind.  "I  can't 
live  all  my  life  in  terror  of  that  man — I  must  over- 
come it.  He  can  not  hurt  me  if  I  am  not  afraid 
of  him."  And  then  she  added,  half-aloud :  "But 
thank  God,  that  this  time,  at  least,  I  shall  have 
Gregory." 

On  Saturday  there  was  a  sudden  hurried  call  for 
Dr.  Truman  and  Father  Richards.  Mrs.  Lackland 
took  a  sudden  turn  for  the  worse.  When  the  hour 
for  Pauline's  departure  drew  near,  they  felt  that 


THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS      241 

death  was  hovering  above  her.    Torn  with  anxiety, 
Pauline  for  the  moment  had  no  thought  of  self. 

"0  Gregory,  I  must  go,  I  must  go.  But  I  shall 
come  back  as  quickly  as  I  can — I  will  come  back 
to-night,  if  possible.  And  you  dare  not  come  with 
me —  I  would  never  forgive  myself  if  anything 
happened  to  Aunt  Laura  while  you  were  away. 
Please,  Gregory,  do  not  worry  so,"  for  he  was  in 
as  great  a  ferment  as  herself.  "You  must  stay  here 
— here.  And  I  shall  send  you  a  telegram  just  as 
soon  as  ever  I  can." 

With  this  all  were  forced  to  be  content.  Greg- 
ory urged  her  to  take  one  of  the  servants  with  her, 
but  Pauline  knew  too  well  the  danger  of  permitting 
a  stranger  to  see  or  hear  anything  of  her  private 
concerns  until  she  had  ascertained  their  true  grav- 
ity. She  had  money — plenty  of  it.  Gregory  saw 
to  that  at  least,  and  she  felt  that  she  could  take 
care  of  herself.  Yet  he  did  not  know  the  sinking 
sensation,  the  icy  shudder  that  seemed  to  sweep 
over  her  form,  the  cold  clutch  upon  her  heart,  as 
they  stood  together  on  the  station,  waiting  for  the 
express. 

"You  will  reach  the  depot  at  5.40,"  he  said. 
"Telegraph  immediately  to  me.  It  will  take  you 


242      THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS 

ten  minutes  to  get  to Street.  I  shall  expect 

another  telegram  from  you  at  seven  o'clock.  Give 
me  the  address,  and  don't  spare  explanation." 

She  nodded.  The  train  was  coming  nearer. 
They  would  part  in  a  few  moments.  He  kissed  her 
tenderly. 

"Would  to  heaven  I  were  going  with  you,  my 
own  dear  Pauline,"  he  said ;  "my  own  dear  sweet- 
heart! But  keep  up  like  the  brave  girl  you  are. 
Nothing  can  go  wrong  with  you,  I  know.  To-mor- 
row morning,  perhaps,  I  shall  be  able  to  join  you, 
if  anything  happens  that  you  can  not  come  to 
me." 

She  braced  herself  quickly.  It  needed  every  bit 
of  courage  she  possessed  to  keep  from  her  lips  the 
cry  of  protest,  of  fear,  that  seemed  bursting  in  her 
brain.  Still  she  smiled  at  him  faintly,  pressed  his 
hand  in  both  hers  a  moment,  and  then  ran  quickly 
up  the  steps  of  the  train.  The  wait  was  only  of  a 
few  minutes'  duration.  She  pressed  her  face 
against  the  glass  and  looked  out  to  where  Gregory 
stood  on  the  platform.  He  waved  his  hand  and 
watched  her — watched  her  until  the  train  carried 
her  away  from  him.  Then,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  for 
he,  too,  had  been  cheerful  for  her  sake,  he  went 


TEE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS      243 

back  to  Lyndhurst,  to  what,  he  felt,  was  a  death- 
bed. 

The  train  was  rather  crowded.  Pauline  saw  a 
seat  at  the  opposite  end  near  the  door  and  she  was 
passing  through  the  aisle  to  reach  it,  when  a  quick, 
sharp  voice  accosted  her. 

"Miss  Faulkner !" 

She  started,  staring  with  something  like  alarm 
into  Julian  Stanhope's  face.  He  rose  and  lifted 
his  hat. 

"There  is  a  seat  here — won't  you  let  me  make 
you  comfortable?"  He  stood  aside,  barring  her 
progress,  so  that  the  very  act  of  passing  him  would 
have  attracted  the  attention  of  the  other  pas- 
sengers. She  smiled  politely,  and  took  the  seat  at 
the  window,  while  he  sat  beside  her.  He  was 
courteous  and  respectful,  and  adopted  a  studied, 
distant  attitude  at  first,  which  allayed  any  fear  she 
might  have  had. 

"I  understand  Mrs.  Lackland  is  very  ill?" 
were  his  first  words. 

"Very  ill,"  said  Pauline.  "We  do  not  think  she 
will  get  better." 

"A  splendid  woman — a  valuable  woman,  too," 
he  said.  "I  always  liked  her.  Mrs.  Sigogne  will 


244       THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS 

be  inconsolable.  I  saw  her  yesterday;  she  was 
speaking  of  her,  telling  me  what  friends  they  had 
always  been,  until  recently." 

"Mrs.  Lackland  has  always  spoken  highly  of 
Mrs.  Sigogne,"  said  Pauline.  "Of  course,  her  ill- 
ness— one  can't  be  very  social  when  one  is  so  ill." 

"I  don't  think  Mrs.  Sigogne  paid  much  attention 
to  that.  She  is  simply  a  little  hurt,  I  think." 

His  words  made  Pauline  uncomfortable — they 
seemed  to  imply  so  much  more  than  was  on  the 
surface.  Julian  Stanhope  had  never  seemed  a  gos- 
sipy man.  She  wondered  why  he  was  talking  in 
this  strain  to  her. 

"Of  course,  Mrs.  Sigogne  and  Gregory  were  to 
have  been  married/'  he  went  on,  in  his  smooth, 
non-committal  voice.  "A  family  arrangement,  I 
believe — which  was  upset  by  a  charming  stranger." 

He  laughed  under  his  breath,  and  the  girl  col- 
ored hotly. 

"I  know  that  Gregory  and  Mrs.  Sigogne  were  at 
one  time  promised  to  each  other,"  she  said.  "But 
that  was  long  ago — before  her  marriage.  It  was  not 
my  intention  to  upset  any  one's  arrangements." 

He  laughed  again,  and  the  girl's  resentment  sub- 
sided. After  all,  why  should  she  care  what  this 


TEE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS       245 

man  thought  of  her?  They  were  now  and  always 
would  be  strangers  to  each  other.  Perhaps  he  read 
the  indifferent  expression  that  stole  across  her  face, 
for  when  he  spoke  again  it  was  in  another  tone, 
and  on  some  casual  matter.  Pauline  answered  him 
briefly,  showing  him  very  plainly  that  conversation 
was  distasteful. 

The  hours  sped  on.  He  left  her  several  times, 
and  once  he  spent  a  long  while  in  the  smoking-car, 
during  which  interval  Pauline  was  glad  to  relax 
her  tired  nerves.  She  felt  strained  to  breaking- 
point  when  he  was  so  near.  She  had  not  forgotten 
that  it  was  he  who  had  brought  the  message  from 
Muriel,  that  he  knew  Penniston.  The  slightest 
hint  of  her  affairs  now  might  make  him  suspicious. 
And  yet  she  could  not  avoid  him.  If  she  went  into 
another  car  he  might  imagine  that  she  was  anxious 
to  get  away  from  him,  and  she  could  not  count  on 
the  extremes  to  which  curiosity  might  lead 
him.  He  must  not  witness  her  meeting  with 
Muriel. 

So  far  he  had  asked  her  no  questions  concerning 
her  destination,  but  as  the  train  approached  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  great  station,  he  evinced  a  slight 
curiosity. 


246      THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS 

"Who  is  to  meet  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"No  one,"  she  answered  briefly.  "I  am  going 
directly  to  the  Saginaw.  I  expect  Mr.  Lackland 
to-morrow." 

She  said  this  so  circumspectly  that  he  had  no 
reason  to  doubt  her  words.  When  they  got  off  the 
train  later,  he  hesitated. 

"Have  you  any  objections  to  my  seeing  you  safe 
to  your  hotel  ?"  he  asked.  "You  are  not  very  well 
acquainted  with  the  city " 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  she  responded,  "but  I 
have  been  to  the  Saginaw  before,  and  I  promised 
to  send  a  message  home  before  doing  anything  else. 
1  am  very  grateful  to  you,  however,"  and  she  held 
out  her  hand.  He  could  urge  no  other  excuse  to 
remain  with  her,  but  shook  hands  cordially,  and 
Pauline  saw  him  depart  with  the  greatest  sense  of 
relief. 

She  had  no  intention  of  going  near  the  Saginaw, 
but  she  felt  that  she  would  have  had  to  go  there  if 
the  man  persisted  in  forcing  his  attentions  on  her. 
Now  that  she  was  relieved  of  the  contingency,  she 
went  at  once  to  one  of  the  tables  near-by  and  wrote 
out  her  telegram. 

"Arrived  safe.    Now  5.45."    She  waited  a  mo- 


THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS       247 

ment,  then  wrote,  as  by  an  afterthought :  "Julian 
Stanhope  in  train  down." 

She  could  not  tell  why  she  added  that,  save  that 
the  fact,  which  had  annoyed  her,  seemed  impor- 
tant just  then.  She  looked  at  her  watch  two  or 
three  times.  She  would  reach  Street  posi- 
tively in  less  than  ten  minutes,  and  she  did  not 
want  to  stand  there  a  second  longer  than  necessary. 
Presently  she  rose  and  passed  through  the  great 
swinging  doors,  out  into  the  surge  of  humanity 
passing  to  and  fro  along  the  busy  street.  And  as 
she  reached  the  corner  which  her  sister  had  ap- 
pointed, a  clock  in  a  near-by  tower  boomed  out  the 
strokes  that  told  her  she  was  punctual  to  the  very 
moment.  She  pushed  her  veil  well  off  her  face,  so 
that  there  might  be  no  mistake,  her  eyes  seeking 
anxiously  for  the  countenance  she  remembered  so 
well.  And  as  she  gazed,  some  one  pushed  against 
her  roughly,  and  the  next  moment  a  voice  whis- 
pered: 

"Go  ahead — straight  down  the  avenue.  I  am  fol- 
lowing. Walk  until  I  join  you." 

Pauline  did  not  even  glance  toward  the  speaker. 
She  turned  straight  ahead  as  she  was  bidden,  and 
pulled  her  dark  veil  down  quickly.  There  was 


248  TEE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS 

neither  excitement  nor  hurry  in  her  walk.  She 
had  traversed  perhaps  two  or  three  blocks  when  a 
hand  was  laid  lightly  on  her  arm. 

"I  shall  go  ahead  now.  Follow  me.  It  is  a  long 
walk,  but  we  dare  not  risk  riding." 

To  Pauline  indeed  the  walk  seemed  intermina- 
ble. She  had  no  idea  who  might  be  ahead  of  her. 
The  voice  was  scarcely  Muriel's — the  figure 
shrouded  in  a  long,  black  cloak  of  some  coarse  ma- 
terial, surely  not  Muriel's.  And  yet  no  one  else 
could  have  recognized  her.  Past  the  silent  houses 
of  respectability  they  went,  past  lighted  streets 
and  stores,  into  a  mean  and  miserable  neighbor- 
hood. A  terrible  odor  assailed  Pauline's  nostrils — 
the  stench  of  a  near-by  abattoir.  The  houses  were 
rickety  shanties,  poor  and  unclean.  Her  guide 
plunged  into  what  appeared  to  be  the  very  worst 
of  these  in  a  long  and  terrible  block.  The  halls 
were  badly  lighted,  the  stairs  worn  black,  the 
handrails  shaky  and  tottering.  Up,  up  they  went, 
four  long  flights,  to  the  very  topmost  story.  Not 
a  word  was  spoken  between  them,  and  Pauline  had 
no  glimpse  of  the  woman's  face.  She  opened  the 
door  with  a  key  she  had  been  holding  in  her  hand, 
evidently.  Not  a  glimmer  of  light  showed  in  the 


THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS       249 

room  beyond,  but  a  cough  low  and  hollow, 
greeted  them. 

"We  are  here,  father,"  said  the  woman  who 
opened  the  door.  "Pauline  has  not  failed  us." 

In  another  moment  the  lamp  was  lighted,  and 
Pauline  stood  anxiously  on  the  threshold.  She 
stood  silent,  gazing  about  her.  The  woman,  tired 
out,  evidently,  had  thrown  herself  into  a  chair  be- 
side the  table.  On  a  couch  close  at  the  window  a 
man  was  lying.  Pauline's  hand  went  to  her  heart 
when  she  saw  him. 

It  was  indeed  her  father — his  gaunt,  gray  wreck, 
rather,  with  hollow,  burning  eyes  set  under  cavern- 
ous temples,  with  parched,  parted  lips,  his  long 
thin  hands  lying  clawlike  on  the  dark  shawl  which 
covered  him.  Pauline  came  into  the  room  and 
closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"Father !"  she  whispered,  and  then  the  hot  tears 
welled  quickly  to  her  eyes.  "Oh,  my  father,  what 
has  happened  to  bring  you  to  this  evil  pass  ?' 


CHAPTER  XX 

EXTRADITION 

THE  woman  at  the  table  threw  back  the  cloak 
that  covered  her,  and  rose  when  Pauline's  voice 
pierced  the  silence. 

"Hunger,  cold,  privation,  and  the  eternal  chase 
of  the  tiger  for  its  prey,"  she  said,  in  a  harsh, 
metallic  voice.  "Pauline — look  at  me/' 

Pauline  looked.  Was  this  Muriel  ?  Muriel,  her 
pale,  pretty  sister,  with  the  soft,  golden  hair,  the 
tenderly  flushed  cheeks,  the  beautifully  curved 
chin  and  throat  and  rounded  figure?  She  stared 
at  the  white-faced,  plain  woman  before  her  with 
something  like  horror. 

"Muriel!  Oh,  Muriel,  surely  you  hare  not 
known  hunger  and  privation  ?" 

"That — and  I  have  known  worse,"  she  said.  "I 
was  sold  into  slavery.  I  was  abused  and  terrified, 
harried  and  tortured,  until  there  is  no  red  blood 
left  in  me.  My  father  sold  me — my  father,  and 
Penniston — and  I  did  not  rebel !" 

"Hush,  hush !"  said  Pauline,  for  a  racking  cough 
250 


EXTRADITION  251 

seemed  to  tear  apart  the  man  on  the  sofa.  "Muriel, 
my  sister,  my  darling !"  She  held  out  her  arms. 
"Come,  dear.  All  that  will  be  forgotten.  I  have 
a  safe  haven  for  you  both,  and  comfort  and  plenty. 

0  my  darling,  you  shall  suffer  no  more,  no  more !" 
And  at  the  gentle  pity  in  her  loving  voice,  the 

bitter  heart  within  this  woman  melted.  She  clung 
to  her  sister  tightly,  eagerly,  as  if  indeed,  having 
found  her,  she  could  not  let  her  go.  At  last  hope 
had  dawned  for  her !  At  last  there  was  a  glimmer 
of  light  in  the  maelstrom  of  darkness ! 

"And  father !"  said  Pauline,  then,  in  those  gen- 
tle tones.  She  knelt  beside  the  couch,  and  took 
his  thin,  hot  hand  in  hers.  "Poor  father !  No 
wonder  you  could  not  get  better  here.  It  will  all 
be  different  now.  Oh,  why  did  you  not  let  me 
know  before  ?  Why  did  you  send  all  that  long  way 
for  Muriel,  when  I  was  so  much  nearer?" 

He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow. 

"Had  I  not  wronged  you  enough?"  he  asked 
pantingly.  "And  Penniston  was  here,  watching. 

1  dared  not  bring  you  again  into  his  clutches.    I 
wrote  to  Muriel  because  there  were  papers — papers 
she  must  destroy.     And  then  she  came  to  me, 
my  poor  child !"    He  looked  with  infinite  tender- 


252  EXTRADITION 

ness  at  the  girl's  drawn  face.  "I  did  not  deserve 
it.  I  deserve  nothing  but  to  be  let  die  like  a 
dog." 

"No,  my  father — do  not  talk  like  that.  You 
shall  not  die.  God  is  good,  so  good  to  us.  Muriel, 
my  dear,  you  told  me  you  were — penniless." 

"We  have  had  nothing  to  eat  since  morning," 
she  said. 

"Nothing  to  eat  since  morning!"  echoed 
Pauline.  "And  father?" 

"Nothing." 

"He  has  medicines " 

"No,  nor  doctors.  We  dare  not  risk  it,  Pauline. 
And  we  had  no  money  to  pay  for  either." 

"Will  you  get  them  now — can  you  ?  Isn't  there 
some  one  here  whom  you  can  trust?  Some  good 
woman  who  will  help  you  ?" 

"The  janitress  who  loaned  me  that  coat — who 
loaned  it  only  after  I  almost  went  on  my  knees  for 
it.  I  daresay  she  thought  I  would  never  come 
back."  She  glanced  at  the  prostrate  form  on  the 
sofa,  and  turned  aside,  but  Pauline  knew,  as  well 
as  if  she  had  spoken,  that  she  would  never  have 
come  back  indeed  had  her  sister  failed  her.  Pau- 
line went  to  her  side  again,  took  off  her  own 


EXTRADITION  253 

warm  cloak  and  put  it  on  her,  and  tied  her  thick 
veil  OTer  her  head. 

"Are  you  able  to  get  some  one?"  she  asked 
gently.  "Or  if  you  will  tell  me  where  she  is,  I 
will  find  her.  We  must  have  fuel  and  a  fire — this 
room  is  too  cold  for  either  of  you.  And  we  must 
have  food.  It  is  not  too  late  for  that.  I  have 
money — all  the  money  we  will  need  until  I  can  get 
you  both  away  with  me.  And  as  soon  as  father 
can  be  moved,  we  will  take  him  to  Lyndhurst." 

The  gaunt  form  on  the  sofa,  a  shadow  of  the 
well-preserved,  well-cared-for  man  she  remem- 
bered, sat  up  suddenly,  terror  in  his  eyes. 

"Take  us  now,  let  us  go  now !"  he  said.  "This 
is  the  time.  To-morrow  morning  may  be  too  late !" 

But  the  effort  exhausted  him.  He  fell  back 
again,  shaking  like  a  leaf. 

"I  will  go,  Pauline,"  said  Muriel.  Her  voice 
was  soft  now,  there  was  a  note  of  the  old  sweetness 
in  it.  "I  will  see  to  the  necessary  things,  and  I 
can  find  a  boy  to  bring  up  fuel.  Sit  and  talk  to 
father  until  I  come  back.  There  is  nothing  else  for 
you  to  do." 

So  Pauline  drew  a  chair  close  to  her  father's 
couch,  and  held  his  hand  in  hers,  patting  it  gently. 


254  EXTRADITION 

She  studiously  avoided  looking  about  her.  The 
bare  poverty  of  the  place  sent  a  chill  to  her  heart. 

"I  am  glad — she  went  away,"  said  the  father, 
after  a  moment.  "I  want  to  talk  to  you — Pauline. 
I  am  dying,  child." 

"You  think  so,  but  that  is  because  you  are  so 
very  weak/'  said  Pauline,  in  low,  reassuring  tones. 
"You  will  get  your  strength  back  quickly.  This 
neighborhood  is  not  helping  you  to  get  better,  and 
you  have  not  had  the  proper  care." 

"My  dear  child,  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  all.  I 
wish  I  could  begin  from  the  beginning  and  tell  you 
the  whole  thing.  But  I  have  not  the  strength. 
I  sacrificed  my  home  life,  my  health,  my  wife,  my 
children,  for — for  the  society.  And  then  it  turned 
— me  down.  And  I  paid  no  attention,  seemingly, 
but  I  was  planning  my  revenge.  I  got  it.  A  re- 
venge dearly  bought.  A  revenge  that  is  costing  me 
my  life." 

"Father,"  said  Pauline,  "in  leaving  all  that  be- 
hind you — all  that  evil — and  feeling  that,  perhaps, 
your  years  may  be  very  few  now,  don't  you  want  to 
think  of— mother?" 

"Ah,  my  dear !    She  is  with  me  always." 

"Then  die  a  death  like  hers." 


EXTRADITION  255 

"Would  to  God  that  I  could !  There  is  no  hope 
for  me.  Neither  on  earth  nor  in  heaven.  I  have 
lived  in  defiance  of  God — will  God  hear  me  now 
when  I  have  lost  everything?" 

"Not  everything.  God  is  still  left,"  she  an- 
swered. "God  is  always  waiting/' 

"Not  for  me,  not  for  me,"  he  murmured. 

The  girl  said  no  more.  She  rejoiced,  rather,  to 
find  him  in  such  an  attitude.  Her  own  spiritual 
sense  had  been  more  keenly  alive  since  Mrs. 
Lackland's  illness.  She  felt  the  necessity  of  God 
and  of  religion — faith,  always  awake  in  her  heart, 
was  now  her  most  cherished  possession.  Yet  she 
was  still  close  enough  to  the  old  life  to  understand 
how  little  it  meant  to  her  father  or  to  Muriel. 
They  were  shut  out  from  the  soul's  dearest  conso- 
lation. She  would  not  intrude  upon  their  attitude 
yet,  but  with  God's  help,  that  would  come  later  on. 

The  kindled  fire,  the  steaming  coffee,  the  food 
that  seemed  to  appear  as  if  by  magic  within  the 
next  hour,  revived  all  three.  Pauline  sipped  the 
hot  coffee  gratefully,  but  she  could  eat  nothing. 
The  two  girls  watched  beside  their  father,  giving 
him  only  a  little  food  at  a  time. 

"I  think  we  can  risk  a  doctor,"  said  Muriel. 


256  EXTRADITION 

"We  will  have  a  doctor  early  in  the  morning.  And 
now,  Pauline,  let  us  understand  each  other.  Are 
you  positive  we  are  wanted  at  Lyndhurst?" 

"Positive.  Mrs.  Lackland  is  very  ill,  so  ill  that 
neither  of  her  sons  dared  leave  her  to  come  with 
me  to-night,  but  I  promised  them  all  that  I  would 
surely  go  back  to-morrow,  with  father,  if  he  could 
be  moved.  And  I  know  he  can  be  moved — any- 
thing is  better  than  this  terrible  place." 

"Are  you  not  afraid  ?    We  have  many  enemies." 

"They  can  not  touch  us  at  Lyndhurst,"  said  the 
girl  confidently.  And  then,  with  a  strange  look 
at  her  sister,  as  a  sudden  thought  struck  her,  "Who 
is  Julian  Stanhope?  Can  you  tell  me?" 

"Stanhope?  Stanhope?"  She  looked  at  her 
curiously.  "I  have  never  heard  the  name." 

"Did  you  ever  give  Wilfrid  Penniston  a  message 
for  me?" 

"Never.  I  have  not  seen  Wilfrid  Penniston 
since  you  went  away." 

"Then  it  is  more  of  his  deceit,"  said  the  girl,  her 
lip  curling.  "It  is  of  no  importance."  She  gave 
a  quick  glance  toward  her  father.  "He  is  asleep," 
she  said,  then,  in  an  undertone.  "Does  he — is  this 
his  bed?" 


EXTRADITION  257 

"Yes,"  said  Muriel.  "There  is  more  air  here 
than  in  the  stuffy  inside  room.  Pauline,  I  am 
afraid  you  won't  sleep  much  to-night.  I  have  only 
a  pallet  on  the  floor." 

"We  will  share  it  together,"  said  Pauline,  in 
steady  tones.  She  looked  at  her  watch.  "I  must 
send  another  telegram  to  Gregory — I  promised 
him  I  would.  Is  there  an  office  anywhere  about 
here?" 

"I  do  not  think  so.  Why  would  you  venture  out 
again  to-night?  It  is  late — after  eight  o'clock." 

"But  I  promised,  I  promised,  Muriel.  And  if 
Gregory  does  not  hear  from  me  he  will  only  suffer 
added  anxiety " 

"Then  it  is  Gregory,"  said  Muriel  softly.  "Do 
you  love  him,  Pauline  ?" 

"With  all  my  heart,"  was  the  low-toned  an- 
swer. "With  all  my  heart,  Muriel." 

Muriel  sighed. 

"That  brings  me  back  to  something  I  hate  to 
talk  about,"  she  said.  "Cyril " 

Pauline  put  her  hand  on  her  sister's  wrist,  half- 
rising  to  her  feet  in  quick  alarm.  She  did  not 
know  why  every  noise,  even  the  slightest,  startled 
her,  but  the  sound  of  feet  on  the  stairs  outside 


258  EXTRADITION 

seemed  to  chill  the  blood  in  her  veins.  With  a 
despairing  moan  on  her  lips,  Muriel  cast  her  arms 
about  her.  And  then  Pauline  knew  that  she  must 
be  strong — that  no  matter  what  danger  threatened, 
she  must  be  calm. 

"This  is  the  door,  my  good  woman?  You  are 
positive  of  it?  Very  well."  There  was  a  loud 
knock  on  the  panels.  The  invalid  started  bolt  up- 
right on  the  sofa,  gasping,  his  hand  seeking  his 
throat,  as  if  he  were  unable  to  breathe.  A  stifled 
scream  burst  from  Muriel's  lips,  which  Pauline 
checked  with  a  warning  look.  She  gently  pushed 
her  sister  back  in  the  chair,  and  opened  the  door. 
Two  men  entered  quickly,  and  shut  it  behind 
them. 

"Which  one  of  you  young  ladies  is  known  as 
Muriel  Faulkner  Morton?" 

It  had  come.  Muriel  started  up,  but  tottered,  and 
would  have  fallen  to  the  ground,  had  not  Pauline 
caught  and  held  her.  The  girl  hid  her  face  in 
Pauline's  bosom. 

"You  are  arrested  for  the  murder  of  Cyril  Mor- 
ton, your  husband,  madam,  and  I  have  here  all  the 
necessary  papers,  signed  and  made  out.  Will  you 
accompany  us  quietly  to  headquarters?" 


EXTRADITION  259 

Strangely  enough,  they  paid  no  heed  to  Muriel, 
but  spoke  directly  to  Pauline.  An  idea,  entirely 
impractical,  if  she  had  taken  time  to  think,  darted 
into  her  brain.  They  imagined  that  she  was 
Muriel!  Well,  she  would  take  Muriel's  place  for 
the  time  being,  until  Gregory  could  come  to  their 
assistance,  and  show  them  what  was  best  to  be 
done. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  then,  quietly,  speaking  for  the 
first  time.  "My  dear  sister,  go  to  our  father — he 
needs  you,"  for  John  Faulkner  had  fallen  back  on 
the  couch  in  a  dead  faint.  And  then  Pauline  went 
to  the  sofa  and  kissed  the  unconscious  face  ten- 
derly, the  men  watching  her  intently.  "Hush, 
dear  sister !  Do  not  cry  so !  I  am  not  the  least 
afraid,"  she  spoke  quickly,  hurriedly.  "Send  word 
to  Gregory — he  will  come  at  once  and  show  you 
what  to  do." 

"I  can  not — I  will  not " 

"You  must,  you  must!  Everything  will  be  all 
right.  Gentlemen,  I  am  ready — won't  you  please 
take  me  away  quickly?  My  sister  is  terribly  ex- 
cited and  nervous." 

"We  have  a  carriage  waiting,"  said  one  of  the 
men. 


260  EXTRADITION 

"Thank  you,"  said  Pauline.  She  pressed  her 
sister  closely  in  her  arms.  "Send  a  telegram  to 
Gregory.  Tell  him.  He  will  see  a  way  out.  Not 
a  word  now  or  you  will  spoil  all.  And  father  can 
not  spare  you — yet." 

She  kissed  to  silence  the  words  that  trembled  on 
Muriel's  lips  and  then  turned  toward  the  men. 
One  preceded  and  one  followed  her.  The  coach,  an 
unusual  sight  in  the  neighborhood,  was  at  tho  curb. 
A  crowd  had  already  gathered,  but  Pauline  looked 
neither  to  the  right  nor  left  as  she  entered  the 
vehicle.  Muriel  must  be  saved.  She  had  no 
thought  of  the  consequences,  no  thought  of  the 
outcome.  She  only  knew  that  Muriel — the  one 
threatened — must  be  free  until  Gregory  could  get 
to  her  and  help  them  both. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

DISASTER 

"To   GREGORY   LACKLAND,    Lyndhurst,    Rocks 

County,   from   John    Faulkner,    240    East   

Avenue. 

"Come  at  once.     Pauline  in  danger/' 

Gregory  had  spent  a  sleepless  night.  He  had 
sent  the  servants  to  the  station  every  hour  until 
midnight,  hoping  that  when  the  second  telegram 
did  not  arrive  Pauline  herself  was  coming.  There 
would  be  no  train  from  twelve  until  four  in  the 
morning,  so  that  when  the  last  train  came,  and 
she  did  not  put  in  an  appearance,  he  gave  himself 
up  to  the  keenest  anxiety.  Between  two  and  three 
o'clock,  the  hour  when  so  many  lives  flicker  out, 
Mrs.  Lackland  seemed  to  be  sinking  very  fast. 
Dr.  Truman,  when  he  heard  of  Pauline's  depar- 
ture, had  resolved  to  spend  the  night  with  her. 
His  prompt  remedies  and  stimulants  tided  over  the 
immediate  danger,  and  at  four  o'clock  she  had  re- 
gained her  normal  state. 

261 


262  DISASTER 

Gregory  received  Muriel's  telegram  just  as  he 
got  home  from  Mass.  It  had  been  delayed,  and  the 
news,  coming  on  the  anxious  night  he  had 
just  gone  through,  seemed  the  crowning  blow. 
He  could  not  refuse  that  call,  it  was  too  im- 
perative— and  yet  how  could  he  leave  his  dying 
mother  ? 

With  the  telegram  in  his  hand,  he  paced  slowly 
up  and  down  the  outside  room,  which  had  been 
Pauline's.  If  he  could  only  do  something,  any- 
thing, to  relieve  this  fearful  suspense !  Bertram 
came  to  the  door.  His  eyes  were  red  and  his  voice 
muffled. 

"Mother  wants  you,  Gregory,"  he  said.  In  an- 
other moment  Gregory  was  bending  over  his 
mother's  bed. 

"Has  Pauline — come  back?"  she  asked  faintly. 

"No,  mother." 

"But  you  have  heard  from  her  ?" 

"Yes — a  telegram  from  her  father  this  morn- 
ing." 

"When  will  they  be  here?" 

Gregory  could  not  answer.  "They — they  are  not 
certain,"  he  faltered. 

"That's   Faulkner — he's  proud,   Gregory.     Go 


DISASTER  263 

for  him,  you.  I  would  like  to  see  him  before  I 
die." 

"Mother,  I .  can  not  bear  to  leave  you." 

"Only  for  a  few  hours — I  am  strong  again — 
I'm  not  in  danger  now,  Gregory.  Do  please  go, 
my  son.  For  Pauline's  sake,  if  not  for  her  father's. 
I  feel  as  if  she  needed  you." 

She  tried  to  reach  his  cheek  with  her  fluttering 
hand.  He  caught  it  and  carried  it  to  his  lips. 

"I'll  go,  then,  mother — I'll  take  the  next  train 
down,  and  bring  them  back  with  me." 

"John  Faulkner  will  come — if  you  urge  it, 
Gregory.  He  will  not  refuse  my  last  request.  We 
have  been  friends  many  years — too  many  years  to 
let  pride  come  between  us." 

Gregory  went  to  see  Dr.  Truman  before  he 
started  on  his  journey,  telling  him  that  he  would 
probably  be  away  the  entire  day.  He  had  spent 
many  disagreeable  hours  in  his  life,  but  the  ones 
that  intervened  now  were  positive  torture.  His 
body  was  exhausted,  his  brain  tired,  but  if  by 
chance  he  dozed  off,  as  the  train  carried  him  on- 
ward, frightful  images  rose  before  him — Pauline, 
weeping  always,  with  Penniston's  evil,  sneering 
face  close  beside  hers.  And  as  he  looked  at  that 


264  DISASTER 

face  it  seemed  to  be  transformed  into  the  smoother 
one  of  Julian  Stanhope. 

His  heart  sank  still  more  when  he  reached  the 
evil-looking,  evil-emelling  region,  and  sought  the 
address  given  him  on  the  telegram.  He  made  in- 
quiries here.  A  stout  woman,  clad  in  a  worn  and 
faded  wrapper,  was  sweeping  out  the  lower  hall. 
Her  eyes  were  swollen  and  inflamed  as  from  weep- 
ing. Was  all  the  world  in  trouble,  thought  Greg- 
ory Lackland,  impatiently. 

"Them's  the  people  on  the  top  floor,"  said  the 
woman,  when  he  mentioned  the  name.  "Where  the 
young  lady  was  taken  away  from  last  night.  A 
nice,  sweet-spoken  girl  she  was,  too.  Her  sister's 
'most  crazy." 

All  this  meant  nothing  to  Gregory.  He  went 
upstairs  at  once,  wondering  how  people  could  exist 
under  the  conditions  which  now  presented  them- 
selves to  him.  He  had  learned  little  of  life's  hard- 
ships in  his  years  of  plenty  and  ease.  It  was 
Muriel  who  opened  the  door.  Her  tears  had  been 
spent  long  since.  She  was  white  and  dry-eyed.  On 
the  sofa  lay  the  prostrate  body  of  a  man.  Gregory 
glanced  at  the  ashen  features  with  a  chill  of  ap- 
prehension. 


DISASTER  265 

"He  is  dead,"  said  Muriel  dully.  "He  died  this 
morning." 

"This  morning?"  Gregory  looked  about  the 
room,  quickly.  "Pauline?" 

"I  do  not  know  where  Pauline  is.  The  officers 
came  last  night,  and  took  her  to  prison.  That  is 
why  I  sent  for  you.  They  came  for  me,  but  she 
told  them  that  she  was  the  one  they  were  looking 
for.  And  now,  now  will  you  take  me  with  you  to 
the  jail,  wherever  it  may  be,  and  tell  them  the 
truth?  I  have  been  with  my  father  to  close  his 
eyes.  Let  her  come  back  to  bury  him." 

"Then  your — then  he  is  dead,  also  ?  Your  hus- 
band is  dead?" 

"So  they  say.  I  am  sorry.  I  did  not  mean  to 
kill  him,  but  he  had  the  revolver  in  his  hand, 
threatening  me,  and  in  the  struggle  it  went  off. 
He  did  not  die  right  away — but  he  told  them  I 
shot  him."  She  sighed  dryly,  hopelessly.  "It  was 
like  him  to  do  that,  and  to  revenge  himself  on  me 
to  the  last." 

"Poor  thing,  poor  thing!"  said  Gregory  com- 
passionately. "But  Pauline  shall  not  leave  you. 
And  at  least  he  is  safe  from  harm,"  pointing  to- 
ward the  quiet,  pulseless  form  on  the  sofa. 


266  DISASTER 

"I  think  so,  I  hope  so.  Poor  Mrs.  Leavitt  came 
up  this  morning.  Her  boy  Willie  disappeared  last 
night  during  the  excitement,  and  hasn't  been  home 
since.  When  she  saw  how  bad  father  was,  she  went 
for  a  priest.  I  think  Pauline's  coming  must  have 
softened  him — he  wouldn't  let  any  one  mention 
priest  to  him  before.  But  at  least  he  died — as — 
as  my  mother  would  have  wished."  She  breathed 
the  last  words  very  gently,  looking  at  the  dead 
form  with  hands  folded  peacefully  on  the  breast 
that  had  heaved  with  so  many  bitter  emotions.  "I 
wish  I  were  with  him,"  she  said  suddenly.  "If 
Pauline  had  not  come  last  night,  I'm  afraid — 
Yes,  it's  damnation,  I  know.  That  was  all  kept 
me  from  it — I  felt  I  could  never  see  my  mother 
again.  And  oh !  I  want  to  see  her,  I  want  to  see 
her!" 

She  said  the  last  words  like  a  stricken  child. 
Gregory's  heart  ached. 

"We  are  wasting  time,"  she  said,  recovering  her- 
self, "we  must  help  Pauline,  now.  Perhaps  it  is 
all  for  the  best — it  would  have  been  too  cruel  had 
she  been  here,  when — "  She  nodded  toward  her 
father.  "But  she  never  thinks  of  self:  that  has 
always  been  Pauline's  great  trouble — every  one 


DISASTER  2ffl 

comes  before  her.  And  it  is  useless  to  dream  of 
such  a  sacrifice,  such  a  substitution,"  she  went  on. 
"Where  can  I  hide,  or  how  ?  They  would  find  me 
in  the  end,  and  I  should  live  in  continual  fear,  con- 
tinual horror,  not  only  for  myself,  but  for  all  those 
who  knew  my  whereabouts." 

He  could  not  but  acknowledge  the  truth  of  these 
words. 

"At  least,"  he  said,  "you  shall  not  be  alone  in 
your  suffering.  Pauline  will  go  with  you " 

"No,"  she  said,  shuddering.  "Pauline  has  too 
many  enemies;  it  is  not  our  fault  that  our  life  is 
different " 

"If  I  can  not  go  where  Pauline  goes,"  said 
Gregory  Lackland  steadily,  "at  least  I  will  pro- 
vide safety  and  protection  for  her.  And  as  soon  as 
may  be  I  will  follow.  You  shall  have  every  help 
that  money  can  provide,  and  the  best  lawyers  in 
London.  I  am  no  stranger  there.  I  have  lived 
there  some  years  of  my  life,  and  I  well  know  how  to 
go  about  such  things." 

Her  hopeless  face  lighted  up  wonderfully. 

"You  give  me  courage,"  she  said.  "Thank  God 
I  have  found  a  friend.  One  has  to  be  friendless  to 
appreciate  what  that  means." 


268  DISASTER 

With  some  of  the  money  Pauline  had  given  her 
she  had  been  able,  Sunday  as  it  was,  to  purchase  a 
plain  cloak  and  hat,  and  these  she  donned  to  go 
out  with  Gregory.  Pauline  had  told  him  always 
that  Muriel  was  pretty,  and  bright,  and  gay. 
There  was  no  trace  of  brightness  or  prettiness  in 
the  wan,  worn,  haggard  creature  who  walked  slowly 
beside  him  to  the  cars. 

"Before  we  do  anything  else/'  said  Gregory 
gently,  "let  us  find  an  undertaker.  Your  father 
must  be  taken  care  of  properly,  and  the  sooner  it 
is  done  the  better.  I  suppose  you  will  bury  him 
here — in  this  country  ?" 

"You  and  Pauline  intend  to  live  here  always,  do 
you  not?"  she  asked  a  little  wistfully. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we  intend  to  live  here  always, 
God  helping  us." 

"And  if  God  is  kind  to  me  I  shall  be  able  to  live 
near  you,"  she  went  on.  "We  were  born  here,  you 
know,  Pauline  and  I,  though  we  have  been  brought 
up  abroad.  I  would  like  my  father's  body  to  be 
near  us.  Maybe,  later,  we  will  be  able  to  bring 
my  mother  here  and  bury  him  with  her,  so  that 
they  can  be  together." 

Gregory  smiled  sympathetically.     He  felt  more 


DISASTER  209 

at  ease  now  that  the  danger  which  threatened 
Pauline  was  such  a  patent  one — an  imaginary  one, 
really,  from  which  she  could  be  released. 

They  went  directly  to  the  police  station.  As  it 
happened,  the  very  first  man  Gregory  saw  was 
Hayes,  and  Hayes,  he  knew,  had  much  influence 
at  headquarters.  He  drew  him  aside,  and  in  a  low 
tone  explained  the  whole  matter  quickly  and 
clearly,  so  that  Hayes  could  grasp  the  situation  at 
once. 

"I'm  going  in  to  the  chief  now,  Mr.  Lackland," 
he  said.  "Wait  here  for  me  until  I  call  you." 

Muriel  sat  trembling  beside  Gregory  on  the 
bench.  She  did  not  know  what  ordeal  awaited  her. 
She  had  gone  through  so  much  that  she  felt  she 
could  not  endure  any  more.  The  agony  was  not 
so  keen  as  it  had  been — that  was  only  natural. 
Human  nature  can  stand  just  so  much,  then  the 
senses  become  dulled ;  pain  has  not  the  same  effect, 
the  same  power.  Presently,  after  what  seemed  like 
an  interminable  length  of  time  to  Gregory,  Hayes 
appeared.  There  was  a  startled  look  on  his  face. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  in  for  a  shock,  Mr.  Lack- 
land," he  said  sympathetically.  "Come  with  me 
to  the  chief,  please." 


270  DISASTER 

Gregory  entered  the  small  back  room  eagerly. 
His  first  sensation  was  one  of  disappointment. 
Pauline  was  not  present.  He  glanced  question- 
ingly  toward  the  gray-haired  man  who  sat  behind 
the  desk,  looking  at  him  keenly  now  over  gold- 
rimmed  glasses. 

"Mr.  Lackland,  I  presume?" 

"Gregory  Lackland,  sir/'  he  answered.  The 
officer  turned  inquiringly  toward  Muriel. 

"My  name  is  Morton,"  she  said.  Her  high- 
bred, refined  accents  accorded  ill  with  the  poor, 
cheap  clothes  she  wore.  "Muriel  Faulkner  Morton. 
My  husband  was  Cyril  Morton,  a  banker,  of 
London." 

He  nodded  gravely. 

"We  quarreled — he  threatened  me  with  a  re- 
volver, and  in  trying  to  avoid  it  there  was  a  strug- 
gle. I  read  that  he  was  dying,  and  that  he  claimed 
his  wife  shot  him.  That  he  is  dead  now,  I  pre- 
sume, since  extradition  papers  were  made  out  for 
me.  Last  night — the  officers  came.  My  sister 
Pauline  was  there.  She  gave  herself  up  in  my 
place,  thinking,  perhaps,  that  I  would  try  to  es- 
cape, and  that  the  truth  would  be  discovered  when 
it  was  too  late  to  arrest  me.  That  is  all,  sir." 


DISASTER  271 

"There  is  evidently  no  subterfuge  in  this  lady's 
story,"  said  the  chief  gravely.  "There  is  a  sister. 
Mr.  Lackland  ?" 

"My  promised  wife,  sir." 

"So."  He  drummed  on  the  desk  a  few  mo- 
ments. "Madam,"  he  said,  then,  "I  am  glad  to  in- 
form yon  that  Cyril  Morton  has  recovered;  that 
while  there  was  some  correspondence  with  Scot- 
land Yard,  they  found  it  unnecessary  to  make  out 
extradition  papers,  as  your  husband  completely 
exonerated  you  from  all  blame." 

The  two  listened  to  him  in  silence.  Muriel 
stared  at  him  with  fascinated  eyes.  Gregory  with 
fallen  jaw. 

"Then  Pauline— Miss  Faulkner?"  he  said,  in  a 
thick  voice. 

"Was  not  arrested  through  our  agency — has  not 
been  arrested  at  all." 

"Not — been — arrested — at — all !  Don't  tell  me 
she  is  not  here,  don't  tell  me  that !" 

"She  is  not  here,  sir.  There  is  something  in  this 
hard  to  understand.  If  the  young  lady  had  an 
enemy " 

"An  enemy !"  echoed  Gregory.  "Oh,  my  Pauline, 
my  poor  Pauline !" 


272  DISASTER 

He  seemed  like  a  man  suddenly  distraught.  He 
swung  on  Hayes,  quickly. 

"Hayes !  You  know !  Hayes,  she  has  fallen  into 
that  man's  clutches!  You  can  help  me — you 
must,  you  must !  I  see  it  all.  She  has  been  fol- 
lowed— followed  to  her  father's  house,  and  then 
they  concocted  this  diabolical  plan,  meaning  to 
claim  her  as  Muriel,  anyhow." 

The  hoarse  cry  of  a  wounded  animal  was  in  his 
tones.  Every  fiber  of  his  being  rose  in  rage  and 
pain.  His  hands  clenched. 

"Do  not  worry,  sir,"  said  Hayes  reassuringly. 
"We'll  haveher — we'll  have  her  in  a  very  short  while  !" 

But  Gregory  had  sunk  down  upon  a  chair,  heed- 
less of  his  words.  Despair  succeeded  impotent 
rage.  He  murmured  the  girl's  name  over  and  over 
again.  He  had  forgotten  all  else,  everything  but 
her  imminent  peril.  He  heard  nothing  after  that. 
He  knew  Hayes  said  something  about  going  into 
the  case — what  he  answered  he  could  not  have  told. 
He  only  knew  that  he  was  taken  finally  to  some 
hotel,  that  he  registered,  that  he  went  to  his  own 
room.  His  mother,  his  home,  everything  was  com- 
pletely swept  from  his  mind.  He  could  think  but 
one  thought,  and  that  thought  was  fearful  torture. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

IN  THE  TOILS 

PAULINE  woke  to  consciousness  with  a  dull 
throbbing  in  her  temples.  At  first  her  mind  was  a 
blank.  She  opened  her  eyes  vaguely  once  or 
twice,  and  shut  them  again.  She  was  dreaming, 
she  knew,  and  wished  she  could  awaken.  Every- 
thing seemed  so  silent,  so  quiet — not  a  sound  dis- 
turbed the  stillness. 

She  lay  with  closed  eyes,  wondering  how  long  the 
dream  would  last.  Then  she  thought  of  Mrs.  Lack- 
land— she  must  get  up  at  once,  and  go  to  her.  It 
seemed  ages  since  she  had  seen  her. 

This  thought  roused  the  girl.  She  struggled  to 
a  sitting  posture,  holding  both  hands  tightly  about 
her  throbbing  head.  She  glanced,  first  with  curi- 
ous, then  with  startled,  questioning  eyes,  around 
her.  Where  was  she  ?  What  was  this  place  ?  This 
plain,  bare  room,  with  its  small  bed  and  one  chair 
— was  she  in  prison  ...  a  prison?  Why,  they 
were  to  take  her  to  prison  last  night.  She  remem- 
bered now — remembered  meeting  Muriel  and  her 
273 


274  IN  THE  TOILS 

father,  remembered  the  officers'  coming — remem- 
bered going  down  the  stairs  with  them,  and  into 
the  carriage. 

After  that  her  mind  refused  to  carry  her  any 
further.  What  had  happened  after  she  entered  the 
carriage?  Yes,  one  man  sat  beside  her,  the  other 
opposite.  Neither  had  spoken  a  word.  Had  she 
fainted  ?  And  from  a  faint  drifted  off  into  slum- 
ber? For  it  had  been  night  then,  and  it  was  day 
now — the  rays  of  light  coming  in  at  the  high  win- 
dow, heavily  barred,  told  her  that.  Was  this  in- 
deed a  prison  cell? 

She  rose  and  tottered  to  the  window.  It  was  set 
high  in  the  wall,  so  she  pulled  the  chair  across  the 
room,  and  climbed  on  it.  Below  her  stretched  a 
sweep  of  marshy  ground,  with  not  a  house  in  sight. 
Far  off  in  the  distance  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
water.  She  gazed,  startled,  fascinated.  This  could 
not  be  a  prison — no  prison  would  be  like  this. 

A  vague  fear  began  to  torment  her  now.  If  it 
were  not  a  jail,  what  was  it  ?  And  how  did  she  get 
here?  Was  she  to  be  taken  back  to  England  im- 
mediately, and  was  this  the  place  where  they  kept 
such  prisoners  ? 

She  tried  the  door.    It  was  bolted  on  the  outside, 


IN  THE  TOILS  275 

as  she  had  surmised.  There  was  no  keyhole,  and 
the  door  was  of  plain,  heavy  oak,  hard  as  iron, 
which  fitted  snugly  into  the  framework,  so  that  no 
probing  from  the  inside  could  release  whatever  lock 
held  it.  Pauline  examined  all  her  surroundings 
carefully,  curiously.  The  dull  throbbing  in  her 
head  ceased  as  she  moved  around,  but  her  tongue 
was  parched  with  thirst,  and  her  throat  was  burn- 
ing. 

She  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed  to  think,  but 
thinking  was  so  impossible  under  the  circumstances 
that  she  rose  again  and  moved  swiftly  up  and  down 
the  floor.  By  and  by  the  frightful  stillness  began 
to  prey  upon  her — it  was  worse  than  any  noise 
could  have  been. 

The  minutes  dragged  by  like  hours.  To  her 
mental  agitation  was  added  now  physical  suffering. 
She  had  eaten  nothing  last  night — the  food  would 
have  choked  her.  She  had  had  no  food  really 
since  her  breakfast  the  day  before,  luncheon  hav- 
ing been  a  hurried,  early  meal  in  her  anxiety  to 
get  away.  But  the  terrible  thirst  was  worse  than 
the  pangs  of  hunger.  Her  tongue  seemed  swollen 
to  the  bursting  point.  And  still  she  was  left  there, 
in  the  silence  and  loneliness. 


276  IV  THE  TOILS 

The  hours  came  and  went.  She  thought  it  must 
be  noontime,  because  the  light  grew  stronger 
through  the  little  barred  window.  She  lay  on  the 
bed,  exhausted,  watching,  with  fascinated  eyes,  the 
stream  of  sunlight  narrowing  and  growing  dull. 
It  was  late  afternoon  now  she  knew,  for  the  light 
had  grown  fainter.  Soon  it  would  be  dark,  pitch 
dark.  Must  she  endure  a  night  as  she  had  done 
this  day?  She  closed  her  eyes  resignedly  at  that 
thought.  Perhaps  she  had  been  brought  here  and 
forgotten.  Perhaps  she  was  to  die  here ! 

Her  hand  struck  something  hard  at  her  waist, 
and  she  slipped  her  fingers  inside  to  find  her 
rosary.  The  touch  of  the  beads  gave  her  courage. 
At  least  she  could  pray.  God  and  His  blessed 
Mother,  who  had  protected  her  from  so  many 
dangers  to  soul  and  body,  who  had  brought  her 
out  of  the  depths  of  indifference  and  despair, 
would  heed  the  petition  of  the  least  of  their 
children ! 

She  turned  on  her  side  and  clasped  her  hands 
together — she  was  too  weak  to  sit  up  now,  and 
prayed  as  best  she  might.  If  she  were  to  die,  she 
asked  that  God  might  be  with  her.  If  it  were  a 
lingering  death  of  agony,  He,  too,  had  suffered 


IN  THE  TOILS  277 

that — and  she  would  accept  it  in  atonement  for  all 
her  sins. 

She  drifted  off  into  a  troubled,  uneasy  slumber 

then,  filled  with  fearful  dreams. 

***** 

The  bolt  was  drawn  noiselessly,  the  door  swung 
outward.  It  was  now  almost  dark  in  the  room. 
The  newcomer  carried  an  unlighted  lamp  in  one 
hand,  and  a  pitcher  and  glass  in  the  other.  He 
put  all  three  on  a  chair,  and  then  went  to  the  bed, 
standing  looking  down  at  the  recumbent  figure. 
Finally,  something  about  her — her  attitude,  her 
pallor,  alarmed  him.  He  bent  over  her  and 
touched  her  hand. 

The  touch  awakened  her.  Her  eyes  flared  open, 
staring  into  his  face.  He  drew  back  instantly,  and 
she,  by  a  superhuman  effort,  sat  up  on  the  side  of 
the  bed,  bracing  herself  for  support  against  the 
iron  framework  at  the  top.  The  man  poured  out  a 
glass  of  water  and  carried  it  to  her. 

"Drink,"  he  said  briefly. 

Pauline  lifted  the  glass  to  her  lips  with  shaking 
fingers.  The  water  was  like  the  draught  from  a 
stream  of  paradise.  The  man  struck  a  match  and 
lighted  the  lamp. 


278  IJf  THE  TOILS 

"We  must  have  light  to  talk  by,"  he  said. 

Pauline  held  the  glass  in  her  hands  and  stared 
at  him.  She  had  not  been  able  to  talk,  but  the 
water  revived  her.  Now  the  man  sat  on  the  foot 
of  the  bed  and  faced  her. 

"I  suppose  you  are  wondering  what  has  brought 
me  here,"  he  began. 

"Yes/'  she  said,  "I — am — wondering."  Her 
mouth  was  still  parched,  so  that  words  came 
slowly.  "I  would  like  to  know  where  I  am." 

"A  hundred  miles  from  nowhere,"  said  the  man 
grimly.  "In  the  middle  of  a  marshy  section,  four 
hours'  walk  from  the  nearest  house.  And  you  are 
absolutely  and  completely  in  my  power." 

The  girl  raised  her  hand  to  her  head  in  a  be- 
wildered fashion. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said.  "Why  should  I 
be  in  such  a  place  as  you  describe — and  why  should 
you  claim  that  I  am  in  your  power,  Mr.  Stanhope  ?" 

"Because  it  is  true.  Because  you  owe  me  the 
pleasure  of  being  installed  here." 

"And  your  purpose  ?" 

"I  am  foolish  enough  to  be  very  much  in  love 
with  you." 

Pauline  shook  her  head. 


IN  THE  TOILS  279 

"You  talk  as  if  this  were  some  savage  country," 
she  said.  "Do  you  think  I  have  no  friends  ?" 

"Many,  I  am  sure,"  he  said,  with  sarcasm. 

"One,  at  least,  who  will  not  remain  long  in 
ignorance  of  my  whereabouts.  Who  are  you — how 
dare  you  carry  me  off  in  this  fashion?" 

Julian  Stanhope  laughed  under  his  breath. 

"I  am  surprised  that  you  ask  me  such  a  ques- 
tion. I  dare  anything — and  you,  better  than  any 
one  in  all  this  world,  know  that." 

He  turned  his  eyes  upon  her  meaningly.  In 
spite  of  her  suddenly  acquired  self-control  a  shud- 
der went  through  her  frame.  Why  were  those 
steely  blue  eyes  so  menacing,  so  familiar  ? 

"I  better  than  any  one?"  she  faltered.  "My 
acquaintance  with  you  is  a  short  one,  Mr.  Stan- 
hope. I  do  not  see  how  you  can  make  an  assertion 
of  that  sort." 

Julian  Stanhope  smiled. 

"You  are  better  acquainted  with  me  than  you 
imagine,  Miss  Pauline,"  he  said  mockingly. 
"Watch,  if  you  please." 

He  ran  his  fingers  through  the  short,  closely 
curled  crop  of  dark-brown  hair  that  covered  his 
head,  and  it  came  away  in  his  hands.  With  equal 


280  IN  THE  TOILS 

facility,  he  removed  the  small,  neat  Vandyke  beard 
that  covered  his  chin.  He  rubbed  his  handker- 
chief a  few  moments  over  his  eyebrows — and  then 
with  a  sinister  smile  on  his  now  beardless  lips  he 
looked  once  more  at  the  girl,  who  had  risen  to  her 
feet,  clutching  at  her  bosom  with  both  straining 
hands,  shrinking  away  from  him  in  fear  and  hor- 
ror, shrinking,  quivering,  until  she  reached  the 
opposite  wall,  where  she  clung. 

"Wilf  rid  Penniston !" 

"Yes,  Wilfrid  Penniston,"  he  said.  "Your  de- 
voted servant,  your  ever-faithful  lover." 

A  low  moan  passed  her  lips. 

"0  my  God,  will  you  fail  me  now?"  she  whis- 
pered. "Am  I  never  to  escape  from  the  fate  that 
threatens  me?  Am  I  never  to  breathe  freely  on 
this  earth  where  Thou  hast  placed  me  ?  God  help 
me!  Mary,  Mother  of  the  friendless,  help 
me!" 

The  man  watched  her.  The  removal  of  false 
beard  and  hair  had  made  a  remarkable  change,  as 
if  with  their  going  the  whole  expression  of  his  face 
had  altered.  His  large  blue  eyes  seemed  crafty 
now,  where  before  they  had  been  penetrating;  the 
lips  were  full  and  coarse.  The  smooth,  light  hair 


Iff  THE  TOILS  281 

and  light  eyebrows  served  to  intensify  the  sallow- 
ness  of  his  complexion,  which  the  darker  hue  of  his 
disguise  had  made  a  distinguished  pallor.  He  had 
known  how  to  make  all  his  natural  disadvantages 
work  to  his  advantage.  Gazing  at  him,  Pauline 
could  only  remember  the  fact  that  it  had  been  his 
boast  always  that  he  could  so  change  himself  that 
his  mother  would  not  recognize  him,  even  under 
closest  scrutiny.  He  had  made  good  that  boast. 
She  herself  had  seen  him  many  times  and  under 
different  circumstances;  had  spoken  to  him  even 
on  matters  dear  to  her,  and  had  suspected  nothing. 
And  oh!  how  much  of  the  events  of  the  past  few 
months  this  revelation  explained ! 

"Well,"  he  said,  at  last,  a  little  impatiently,  "as 
soon  as  you  get  over  your  surprise,  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

She  drew  a  deep,  long  breath.  His  voice  roused 
every  spark  of  courage  in  her  soul. 

"I  am  not  surprised,"  she  said.  "I  am — fright- 
ened at  the  accuracy  of  my  own  instincts." 

"You  never  knew,"  he  said  quickly,  jealously. 
"You  never  knew." 

"I  knew  enough  to  hate  you,"  she  said.  "Oh, 
I  am  very  glad  I  always  knew  enough  to  hate  you." 


282  IN  THE  TOILS 

Two  spots  of  light  seemed  to  glow  in  the  steely- 
blue  eyes. 

"Be  careful,"  he  warned.  "Do  not  tax  my  pa- 
tience too  far.  Do  not  forget  that  you  are  as  com- 
pletely in  my  power " 

"As  I  was  before — and  still  I  escaped  you." 

"You  are  foolish  to  antagonize  me,"  he  said. 
"If  you  will  listen  and  be  sensible,  perhaps  we  can 
arrive  at  an  understanding.  Won't  you  sit  down  ?" 

"Not  unless  you  stand,"  she  said.  "I  can  see 
you  very  distinctly  from  here." 

His  face  colored.  He  was  silent.  In  his  own 
mind  he  knew  that  this  girl's  will  completely 
dominated  him.  Away  from  her  he  could  plan 
schemes  of  vengeance,  he  could  formulate  argu- 
ments that  would  compel  her  to  listen  to  him.  But 
in  her  presence  he  was  helpless.  He  had  felt  this 
always.  He  would  have  done  good  for  her  sake  as 
willingly  as  he  chose  to  do  evil.  Whatever  the  bias 
of  his  mind,  the  perversion  of  his  talents,  he  loved 
her. 

"Pauline,"  he  said  in  a  more  gentle  tone, 
"Pauline,  I  would  not  harm  a  hair  of  your  head. 
You  must  listen  to  me  now  .  .  .  you  will  at  least 
hear  an  explanation " 


IN  THE  TOILS  283 

But  she  dreaded  this  milder  mood  worse  than 
his  most  terrible  threats. 

"You  are  a  buffoon  I"  she  mocked,  and  her  voice 
was  harsh.  "You  are  a  coward.  One  weak  woman 
— a  poor  creature,  scarce  worth  looking  at  the  sec- 
ond time,  and  Penniston,  the  powerful,  spends  his 
time  upon  her !  Wastes  it,  when  there  is  so  much 
work  waiting  for  him!  Oh,  coward,  coward, 
coward !" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  with  hands  clenched. 

"Don't  tempt  me,"  he  said,  "don't  tempt  me. 
I  have  killed  for  less  than  that." 

She  flung  back  her  head  defiantly. 

"You  are  a  coward!  It  is  because  you  know 
your  own  cowardice  that  you  are  angry.  You  got 
my  father  into  your  power  and  compelled  him  to 
sell  his  daughter  to  a  man  she  hated ;  you  hounded 
him  and  betrayed  him,  and  when  he  retaliated,  you 
followed  him  and  me  across  the  ocean,  determined 
to  have  your  wayt!  Well,  you  have  it!  My  sister 
is  a  broken  woman,  her  beauty  is  gone,  her  health 
impaired,  her  husband  dying  at  her  hands!  My 
father  is  dying,  too — he  will  never  see  another  year 
of  life.  But  I !"  Her  gray  eyes  blazed  at  him,  her 
lips  taunted  him  anew,  her  whole  face  glowed  with 


284  IN  THE  TOILS 

the  hatred  she  felt.  "You  have  never  conquered 
me !  You  shall  never  conquer  me !  Because  of 
your  high  phrases  and  specious  arguments  I  be- 
lieved in  you  at  first,  but  you  could  not  deceive 
me  long.  You  have  not  deceived  me,  you  never 
will.  I  may  die — I  can  die.  I  am  not  afraid  of 
death,  I  looked  death  too  long  in  the  face  to  be 
afraid  of  it.  But  I  shall  go  out  of  life  uncon- 
quered!  I  shall  go  out  of  life  your  enemy — and 
God  will  deal  between  us !" 

The  words  were  hurled  at  him  like  so  many 
blows.  Each  one  of  them  struck  him  with  bitter- 
ness. He  had  risen  and  watched  her,  fascinated,  as 
she  spoke,  and  then  the  white  anger  which  she  had 
striven  to  rouse  within  him  asserted  itself.  He 
stooped  toward  the  chair  and  took  the  lamp  in  his 
hand. 

"I  am  going  now,"  he  said.  "You  have  had  no 
food,  and  you  will  get  none.  You  shall  have  no 
light,  and  you  shall  have  no  companionship  but 
your  own  thoughts.  Let  us  see  how  far  they  can 
carry  you.  I  will  not  return  again  until  you  are 
ready  to  talk  to  me.  When  you  feel  that  that 
time  has  come,  knock  on  the  floor  with  the  chair. 
I  shall  hear  you  and  respond.  There  will  be  food 


IN  THE  TOILS  285 

waiting — food  and  drink  and  comfort — when  you 
are  ready  for  them.  But,"  and  he  turned  toward 
the  door,  "remember  this :  I  will  not  relent.  You 
can  starve  if  you  will.  If  I  can  not  have  you  liv- 
ing, Gregory  Lackland  shall  never  have  you.  You 
shall  never  marry  another  man  but  myself,  and  in 
knocking  on  that  floor  for  assistance  you  will  be 
prepared  to  accept  the  terms  I  offer  you.  You 
understand  ?" 

"I  thank  you — yes,"  she  answered. 

"That  is  good."  He  went  toward  the  door  and 
with  a  sweep  of  his  hand  overturned  the  pitcher 
of  water  to  the  floor.  "The  quicker  to  make  you 
come  to  your  senses !"  he  said,  with  that  evil,  bitter 
smile,  and  then  went  out  and  shut  the  door  behind 
him.  It  swung  noiselessly  into  place.  She  heard 
the  bolts  being  slipped,  and  his  footsteps  receding. 
Then,  weak,  faint,  exhausted,  she  tottered  through 
the  darkness  toward  the  bed,  found  it,  and  threw 
herself  upon  it. 

"Come  quickly,  death,"  she  said,  in  low,  faint 
accents.  "Sweet  sister,  death,  come  quickly.  And 
God  have  mercy  upon  me." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

RESCUE  1 

GREGORY  LACKLAND  did  not  go  home  that  day. 
He  reached  Dr.  Truman  by  telephone,  and  heard 
that  his  mother's  condition  was  unchanged.  The 
greater  peril  that  Pauline  might  even  then  be  en- 
countering swallowed  up  every  other  thought.  He 
paced  his  room  with  a  steady  stride,  thinking, 
thinking.  He  had  no  solution  of  the  problem.  He 
did  not  know  where  to  turn.  There  would  be  no 
boat  until  Tuesday,  so  that  Pauline  had  not  been 
taken  out  of  the  country.  Hayes  had  already  noti- 
fied all  the  steamship  companies,  and  placed  men 
on  watch  for  suspicious  persons.  This  was  only  a 
precaution,  for  Hayes  was  a  thorough  man  in  his 
chosen  profession.  He  worked  from  the  starting- 
point. 

This  starting-point  led  him  to  the  mean  street 
in  which  Muriel  Morton  still  lived,  watching  be- 
side her  dead  father's  body.  He  lounged  care- 
lessly around  the  door,  waiting  for  the  chance 

comer,  that  he  might  discover  one  who  had  been 

286 


RESCUE!  287 

present  the  previous  night  and  observed  the  depart- 
ing carriage.  He  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Morton  and 
was  not  anxious  to  see  her,  as  he  had  already  had 
her  description  of  the  two  men — a  meager  one,  be- 
cause of  the  terrible  excitement  under  which  she 
had  been  laboring.  Now,  as  he  leaned  against  the 
door-jamb,  fumbling  with  the  somber  streamers 
that  proclaimed  the  presence  of  death  within  the 
house,  he  thought  that  he  could  explain  his  pres- 
ence by  saying  that  he  was  one  of  the  undertaker's 
assistants  if  people  became  too  curious. 

No  one  went  in  or  out,  however,  but  he  sud- 
denly found  himself  listening  to  the  most  terrible 
yells,  he  could  faithfully  declare,  he  had  ever  heard. 
These  yells  were  accompanied  by  vigorous  whack- 
ing, bestowed  evidently  by  no  weak  hand.  A  slight 
smile  spread  over  Hayes'  mouth,  as  the  wails  and 
shouts  of  the  boy  struck  on  his  ears,  and  a 
woman's  shrill  tones  accompanied  each  substantial 
blow  with  force  and  emphasis.  Presently  there  was 
a  tremendous  scuffle,  and  a  door  in  the  back  was 
thrown  open.  A  boy  of  about  twelve  years  old 
rushed  out,  shielding  himself  with  both  his  arms, 
and  a  slipper,  flung  after  him  with  speed  and  ac- 
curacy, caught  him  fairly  between  the  shoulders 


288  RESCUE! 

and  pitched  him  head  foremost  along  the  dusky 
hall.  Hayes  managed  to  break  the  force  of  the 
fall,  however,  and  yanked  the  lad  to  his  feet.  The 
door  was  slammed  hastily  when  its  inmate  saw 
that  there  was  a  stranger  on  the  scene. 

"Hold  on,  there!"  said  Hayes,  not  unkindly. 
"Trying  to  break  your  neck  ?" 

"You  jest  lemme  go  I"  howled  the  boy.  "Gwan ! 
Lemme  go !  She  ain't  agoin'  to  beat  me  no  more !" 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Hayes.  "You  certainly  look 
as  if  you  had  had  enough  beating  for  this  time,  at 
any  rate." 

"She'll  be  out  in  a  minute,"  warned  the  boy. 
"And  she  wouldn't  mind  beatin'  you,  either !  She's 
jest  lookin'  for  her  shoes !" 

"Maybe  she  won't  find  them,"  said  Hayes  en- 
couragingly. "But  let's  get  on  then — I  don't  want 
any  part  of  your  beating.  What  did  you  do  ?" 

"I  didn'  do  nothin'." 

"Of  course  you  didn't!  It's  just  about  likely 
you  didn't."  Hayes  went  on  down  the  street,  how- 
ever, with  his  hand  on  the  boy's  arm.  "Still,  I 
think  you're  the  fellow  I  want  to  see,"  he  said. 
"Here's  a  handkerchief.  Wipe  your  face.  Your 
forehead  is  bleeding." 


RESCUE!  289 

The  boy  looked  at  him  curiously,  suspiciously. 

"I  bet  I  know  who  you  are/'  he  said.  "You're 
one  of  dem  fly  cops,  and  you're  after  de  people  on 
de  top  floor." 

Hayes  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"You'll  be  a  'fly  cop'  yourself  some  day,  if  you 
keep  on  making  guesses/'  he  said.  "No,  I'm  not 
after  the  people  on  the  top  floor." 

"Who  den?    Old  man  Bell?" 

"No,  I'm  not  after  old  man  Bell." 

The  boy  was  silent  a  moment. 

"I  didn'  do  nothin,'  mister,"  he  said  then,  in- 
gratiatingly. "Cross  me  heart,  I  didn'  do 
nothin'." 

"Maybe  not — but  your  mother  thinks  you  did 
something." 

"Gee!  Could  I  help  it  if  I  got  stuck?  I  only 
meant  to  steal  a  ride  a  little  way,  an'  de  fust  thing 
I  knew  I  was  so  far  out  I  didn'  dast  chuck  it,  or 
I'd  never  get  back.  So  I  stuck  on,  till  me  spine 
was  broke.  And  when  I  tried  to  sneak  home,  I 
couldn't  hold  on  no  more — only  half-way.  So  I  had 
to  hoof  it.  An'  dat's  de  God's  honest  truth,  mis- 
ter, so  help  me  jimmy." 

As  if  by  an  inspiration  Hayes  saw  through  this 


290  RESCUE! 

disconnected  statement.  He  stared  reflectively  at 
the  boy  an  instant,  his  eyes  studying  him. 

"0  you  unexpected  bonanza !"  he  murmured. 
"You  gold  mine !  You  priceless  gem !  What  luck ! 
What  royal  luck!  I  can't  believe  it!"  Aloud  he 
said.  "And  when  you  got  home  your  mother  gave 
you  a  good  beating  for  running  away." 

"Dat's  jest  it — 'n'  I  couldn't  make  her  see 
through  it  'at  I  only  did  it  for  fun.  I  didn'  mean 
nothin'." 

"That  was  the  carriage  that  the  strange  young 
lady  went  off  in  last  night,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Yep.  Dere  was  a  fat  guy  an'  a  t'in  one.  De 
t'in  guy  went  in  de  house  and  de  fat  guy  came  back 
after  dey  carried  de  girl  in  an'  he  got  into  de  car- 
riage all  alone.  What  was  it,  mister?  'Tain't 
none  o'  my  business,  but  it  looks  like  kidnappin'." 

"Sonny,"  said  Hayes  impressively,  "what's  your 
name?" 

"Bill— Bill  Leavitt.  Mom  calls  me  Willie,  but 
I  ain't  no  Willie  boy.  Bill's  good  enough  for  me." 

"Well,  Bill,  if  you  grow  up  as  smart  as  you  are 
now,  you  can  make  something  of  yourself — yes, 
and  I'll  help  you.  Now,  lad,  listen.  That  was  a 
plain  case  of  kidnapping.  Those  fellows  made  be- 


RESCUE!  291 

lieve  they  were  detectives  and  took  the  girl  out. 
She  thought  she  was  going  to  a  police  station,  and 
instead  they've  carried  her  off  and  hidden  her." 

"De  Black  Hand !"  cried  Bill  Leavitt,  in  an  awed 
whisper. 

"No — not  the  Black  Hand.  Just  people  that 
have  a  grudge  against  her.  I'm  telling  you  this 
because  I  want  you  to  help  u»." 

"Sure  I  will!  Help!  I  should  say  so!  Ikey! 
Me  in  line  wid  a  real  fly  cop !  You're  de  goods  ? 
You  ain't  pullin'  it  over  me?" 

"I'm  the  goods,"  said  Hayes,  showing  his  shield. 

"Dat's  it !  Put  it  dere,  pal  I"  He  held  out  one 
grimy  hand,  and  Hayes  shook  it  hastily.  "Now 
what  do  you  want  me  to  do?  But,  say — you  got 
ten  cents?" 

"What  for?" 

"I'm  starved.  I  didn'  have  nothin'  to  eat  sence 
last  night  an'  you  bet  me  mother  didn'  give  me 
porterhouse  steak  for  me  supper  to-night !  I'd  like 
to  get  a  meal  'fore  we  start  to  do  anything." 

"I'm  with  you,"  said  Hayes.  "Do  you  think  you 
could  fetch  us  to  that  house  again  ?  Do  you  think 
you  know  where  it  is  ?" 

"I  couldn'  tell  you  where  it  is,"  said  Bill  con- 


292  RESCUE! 

fidently.  "But  I  can  bring  you  dere  all  right.  I 
ain't  been  brought  up  wid  de  gang  for  nothin'." 

While  the  lad  was  eating,  Hayes  telephoned  to 
Gregory  Lackland  and  told  him  where  to  meet  him. 
There  were  a  few  preliminaries  to  be  arranged.  It 
was  too  late  that  night  to  swear  out  a  warrant,  but 
Hayes  waived  that  aside  as  of  little  moment.  Then 
they  had  to  get  four  men  to  accompany  them. 
Gregory  Lackland  and  four  detectives  occupied  the 
interior  of  the  coach,  while  Bill  sat  up  beside 
Hayes,  who  drove.  It  was  pitch-dark  and  quite 
cold.  A  piercing  March  wind  was  blowing  that 
seemed  to  penetrate  into  the  very  marrow  of  the 
thinly  clad  boy.  But  it  did  not  abate  his  courage. 
Hayes  wrapped  him  up  as  well  as  he  could  in  the 
thick  fur  robe. 

"It  was  morning  when  dey  got  to  it,"  said  the 
boy.  "It  wasn't  light,  but  I  heard  de  fellow  say 
it  was  four  o'clock.  It's  a  fierce  drive,  mister." 

"Thaf s  what  we're  here  for,  boy,"  said  Hayes. 
"And  we  don't  want  to  get  too  close.  We  could 
probably  get  there  more  quickly  by  train,  but  you 
have  no  idea  where  it  is  located." 

"Only  by  me  nose,"  said  the  boy  sagaciously, 
"an'  what  I  could  make  out  ...  we  turned  here, 


RESCUE!  293 

mister,"  he  said  sharply,  as  they  reached  the  corner 
of  the  avenue,  "and  went  straight  uptown,  till  we 
got  near  de  station.  Den  we  cut  across  again  as 
far  as  we  could  go — to  the  Drive — right  over  de 
bridge  and  straight  ahead." 

It  was,  indeed,  "a  fierce  drive,  mister."  Once 
they  came  to  a  cross-road  at  which  the  boy  hesi- 
tated a  second.  But  he  suddenly  remembered  that 
just  here  one  of  the  men  had  called  out  from  the 
carriage.  "To  the  left — past  the  big  tree/'  and 
this  settled  the  question.  They  were  driving 
through  a  sparsely  settled  section  of  the  city  now. 
At  the  noise  of  the  carriage-wheels  sleeping  dogs 
were  roused,  and  Bill  enlivened  the  tedium  of  the 
hours  by  tormenting  them  as  far  as  he  was  able 
from  the  top  of  a  coach.  But  soon  even  these  stray 
farmhouses  were  left  behind.  It  was  a  wild  drive,  an 
uncertain  drive,  with  uncertainty  at  the  end  of  it. 

Suddenly  the  boy  put  his  hand  on  the  detective's 
arm. 

"Smell  dat  ?"  he  said.  "We're  coming  to  it.  Dat's 
de  sea — it's  close  to  de  water." 

Hayes  drew  rein  at  once.  The  horses,  strong  as 
they  were,  settled  back  willingly  enough.  The  pace 
had  been  a  steady  one  and  they  were  tired. 


294  RESCUE! 


far  ahead,  Bill  ?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"I  don't  know,  sir  —  I  ain't  any  idea  now.  It's 
on  the  left-hand  side.  It's  a  square  brick  build- 
ing, 'bout  free  stories  high.  I  jest  could  see  it  a 
little  bit  —  it  was  so  pitchy  dark.  Dere  was  a  roof 
over  de  door,  like  —  a  pointed  roof,  sticking  out 
from  de  front  of  de  house.  And  dere  ain't  another 
house  nowhere  round." 

Once  more  the  detective  chuckled.  He  was  lost 
in  admiration  at  this  boy's  unexpected  resource  and 
keen  observation. 

"If  we  failed  to  find  it  after  that  we  ought  to  be 
shot,"  he  remarked.  The  others  had  jumped  out 
of  the  coach  when  it  stopped,  and  now  stood  wait- 
ing for  Hayes  and  the  boy.  Gregory  Lackland, 
whose  eyes  were  burning  and  smarting  in  his  head 
from  lack  of  rest  and  sleep,  had  not  spoken  a  sin- 
gle word  since  they  started.  He  was  simply  an 
automaton,  pursuing  an  elusive  hope.  Pauline,  the 
girl  he  loved  so  dearly  and  so  tenderly,  was  in  the 
hands  of  a  fiend.  Only  the  swiftness  with  which 
they  had  been  able  to  raise  this  clue  gave  him  any 
courage  to  pursue  it.  He  took  his  place  among 
them  now,  listening  as  they  devised  ways  and 
means  to  accomplish  their  purpose.  They  blank- 


RESCUE!  295 

eted  the  horses  well,  and  tied  them  securely.  They 
did  not  know  how  many  men  would  be  needed  at 
the  end  of  their  journey,  so  they  felt  that  not  one 
could  be  left  behind.  Hayes  and  the  boy  led,  the 
rest  following. 

And  this  was  the  hardest  ordeal  of  all.  The 
ground  was  damp  and  moist — there  had  been  very 
heavy  rains,  and  the  thick  mud  of  the  road  soon 
covered  shoes  and  clothing  with  a  clinging  black 
paste.  There  was  not  a  single  word  spoken.  The 
boy  was  drawn  up  close  to  Hayes,  and  Hayes  had 
thrown  his  arm  about  him  to  help  him  along,  for 
even  his  sturdy  pluck  could  not  beat  back  the  ex- 
haustion that  was  stealing  over  him.  Presently 
Hayes  had  to  call  one  of  the  men,  and  between 
them  they  formed  a  sort  of  strap  or  seat  of  one  of 
the  carriage  blankets  which  they  had  brought  with 
them,  and  made  the  boy  sit  in  it.  In  this  way  they 
managed  to  carry  him,  taking  turns  when  the  roads 
were  very  heavy. 

Presently  the  lad,  nodding  sleepily,  straightened 
into  alertness. 

"We're  pretty  near  it  now/'  he  said.  "Hear  de 
water?  Before  you  could  only  smell  it.  ... 
Say,  mister,  put  me  down.  Dat's  de  house.  Dere 


29«  RESCUE! 

it  is.  Put  me  down,  mister.  I'm  all  right 
now." 

They  put  him  down.  In  the  darkness  the  square 
house  loomed  before  them  without  a  distinguishing 
characteristic.  But  a  great  sense  of  satisfaction 
filled  them.  At  last,  after  the  long  uncertainty  of 
the  past  hours,  they  had  succeeded. 

Gregory  Lackland  roused  as  from  a  stupor. 

"This  is  the  house?"  he  asked.  "He  says  this 
is  the  house,  Hayes  ?" 

"Yes.  Be  careful,  Mr.  Lackland.  The  less  said 
the  better.  We  have  no  idea  how  many  there  are 
to  face.  Have  you  a  revolver  ?" 

"No,"  said  Gregory,  in  a  rough  voice.  "But  if 
— if  it's  that  man — I  won't  need  a  revolver.  My 
two  hands  will  be  enough." 

Hayes  compressed  his  lips.  There  would  be  more 
than  a  rescue  on  their  hands  if  Gregory  Lackland 
came  face  to  face  with  Penniston. 

With  every  appearance  of  strength  and  solidity, 
the  door  yielded  easily  to  Hayes'  skeleton  key. 
There  was  a  chain  on  the  inside  which  had  not  been 
slipped  into  its  socket,  and  also  a  bolt.  The  bolt 
had  evidently  been  pushed  over  very  carelessly,  so 
that  it  failed  to  catch.  The  men  had  removed  their 


RESCUE!  297 

shoes  on  the  doorstep,  and  now  Hayes  barely 
breathed  his  instructions. 

"I'll  take  the  boy  behind  me — we  must  protect 
him.  You  two  men  follow — then  Mr.  Lackland 
and  the  other  two.  This  door  either  shows  extreme 
confidence  or  it  is  part  of  a  trap.  Have  your  re- 
volvers ready." 

Like  ghosts  they  went  silently  up  the  stairs. 
There  was  not  the  faintest  glimmer  of  light. 
Hayes  felt  each  step  with  his  hand  carefully  as  he 
went.  The  stale,  musty  odor  of  an  unused,  un- 
aired  building  was  everywhere.  They  scarcely 
breathed.  Slipping  his  hands  along  the  wall, 
Hayes  knew  he  was  on  the  first  landing.  He  turned 
up  the  next  flight.  Here  a  door  was  slightly  ajar, 
and  light  came  from  the  room  beyond  it.  It  took 
but  a  moment  for  Hayes  to  ascertain  that  it  held 
an  occupant.  And  as  they  stood,  waiting,  a  voice 
reached  them,  rising  and  falling  steadily.  First, 
it  was  a  moaning  sound,  then  a  low  laugh,  then  the 
babbling,  incoherent  tone  of  delirium.  Gregory 
Lackland  straightened  up  suddenly,  but  the  man 
behind  him  was  too  quick — Hayes  had  known  he 
could  depend  on  him.  He  put  his  hand  over  Greg- 
ory's mouth,  muttering  warnings  into  his  ear. 


298  RESCUE! 

Hayes  moved  into  the  room  with  a  catlike  tread. 
The  man  who  occupied  it  was  seated  at  a  table  in 
the  center  of  the  room,  his  head  upon  his  arms. 
He  had  fallen  asleep. 

Gregory's  tones  roused  him.  He  had  torn  him- 
self from  the  cautioning  hold  of  the  detective. 

"Man,  man !  It's  Pauline !"  he  said.  "Do  you 
not  think  I  recognize  her  voice?  It  is  Pauline!" 
And  then  there  was  the  sound  of  flying  footsteps. 
He  had  plunged  madly  up  the  second  flight  of 
stairs. 

Penniston,  rousing  from  his  slumber,  looked  into 
the  barrel  of  a  revolver.  Hayes  stood  over  him. 
One  glance  into  his  face  and  the  man  recognized 
him. 

"So  we  are  fated  to  meet  again,  my  friend  ?"  he 
said.  "The  cards  are  with  you.  But  I  guess  you're 
a  little  bit  too  late — just  a  little  bit  too  late." 

The  groan  of  a  man  in  agony  floated  down  to 
them — followed  by  despairing  words.  Penniston 
laughed  again. 

"Checkmate!"  he  said  softly,  under  his  breath. 
"We  are  quits  at  last,  good  friend  Lackland.  No 
man  has  ever  conquered  me  without  paying  well 
for  his  victory." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AND  LAST 

IT  was  Gregory's  arms  that  went  around  the 
slight  form  lying  on  the  pillow,  her  rosary  clenched 
tightly  in  her  hands,  her  lips  cracked  and  swollen, 
the  tongue  protruding.  It  was  Gregory's  voice  that 
fell  upon  her  ears — deaf  ears  now.  One  of  the 
men,  who  was  striking  matches  steadily  in  the 
room,  spoke. 

"Lef  s  get  her  out  of  here/'  he  said.  "That's 
either  poison — or  she's  dying  of  thirst.  Go  down 
and  see  if  you  can  find  some  water,  Tom,"  he  re- 
marked. "You  go  with  him,  Billy  Leavitt.  You'll 
find  it  if  it  is  in  the  house." 

Gregory  lifted  the  girl  in  his  arms  and  they  went 
down  to  where  Penniston  and  Hayes  still  sat.  As 
he  came  in,  the  prisoner  opened  his  mouth  to  speak 
evidently  to  taunt,  but  a  sharp  rap  of  Hayes'  re- 
volver on  his  knuckles  silenced  him. 

"Get  him  out  of  here,  will  you,  Hayes?"  said 
Gregory  pleadingly,  but  his  tones  were  dangerous 

"Tie  him  up  and  give  him  to  some  one  of  your  men 
299 


300  AJfD  LAST 

and  come  and  help  me.  You  will  know  what  to 
do  better  than  any  one/' 

Tom  and  the  boy  came  with  the  water  then. 
They  bathed  the  unconscious  girl's  face  and  hands, 
and  sprinkled  a  few  drops  on  her  swollen  tongue. 
As  it  touched  her  face  the  low  moaning  ceased. 
The  strained  and  terrible  expression  of  her  coun- 
tenance seemed  to  melt  into  one  more  peaceful. 

"At  least  she  is  not  dead/'  said  Gregory;  "we 
can  be  thankful  for  that." 

Hayes  had  her  hand  in  his. 

"I  don't  know  much  about  medicine,"  he  said, 
"but  she  hasn't  been  long  enough  without  food  and 
water  to  reach  this  stage.  She's  only  been  away 
thirty-six  hours,  and  she's  in  a  raging  fever.  Prob- 
ably her  brain's  given  out  under  the  strain.  We'll 
have  to  get  her  to  a  doctor  as  quickly  as  we  can, 
for  she's  frightfully  ill,  Mr.  Lackland.  With  that 
fever  she'd  be  gone  in  a  few  hours.  Let  us  keep 
bathing  her  face  and  hands  this  way — if  s  the  best 
we  men  can  do  for  her,  and  I'll  send  a  couple  of 
the  fellows  after  the  carriage.  Then  there's  noth- 
ing to  be  done  but  to  get  her  into  it  and  back  to 
civilization  as  quickly  as  possible." 

Two  of  the  men  had  anticipated  orders  and  had 


AND  LAST  301 

already  started  back.  It  was  a  half-hour  before 
the  carriage  drew  up  in  front  of  the  door.  Three 
men  were  left  on  guard  with  Penniston,  and 
Hayes  promised  to  send  them  a  conveyance  as  soon 
as  he  struck  a  farmhouse.  Gregory  and  he  lifted 
the  unconscious  Pauline  into  the  carriage  with  one 
of  the  detectives,  and  Hayes  and  the  boy  crawled 
back  on  the  box.  Bill  Leavitt,  the  god  of  the  ma- 
chine, had  been  a  silent,  ecstatic  spectator  of  all 
that  had  transpired.  None  of  the  fellows  would 
ever  have  a  tale  to  beat  this  one !  This  was  an  ad- 
venture that  would  establish  his  reputation  for 
ever! 

And  with  a  blissful  smile  on  his  thin  little  mouth 
he  fell  fast  asleep,  and  Hayes  gathered  him  up 
close  to  him,  covered  him  well,  and  bothered  him 
no  more.  His  work  was  done,  well  done. 

The  ride  to  the  city  didn't  seem  half  as  long  as 
the  ride  out  of  it  had  been.  From  time  to  time 
Gregory  cooled  the  girl's  face  with  water,  and  gave 
her  a  little  to  drink.  She  seemed  to  be  breathing 
more  naturally,  but  Gregory  could  not  forget  that 
first  expression.  It  had  been  of  such  intense  ag- 
ony that  he  felt  he  would  never,  dead  or  living, 
banish  that  terrible  glimpse  of  her. 


302  AND  LAST 

They  reached  the  city  limits  at  eight  o'clock. 
Hayes  woke  Bill  Leavitt  and  dispatched  a  man 
with  him  to  make  explanation  of  his  second  dis- 
appearance to  his  mother,  and  also  to  relieve  the 
distress  which  Pauline's  sister  must  be  enduring. 
Then  he  drove  to  the  nearest  hospital.  Pauline  was 
carried  in,  the  situation  hastily  explained,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  a  number  of  trained  nurses  were 
working  over  her. 

"None  too  soon/'  said  the  doctor,  "but  we've  got 
a  fighting  chance,  and  we'll  make  the  best  of 
it." 

It  was  night  before  Gregory  Lackland  knew  that 
the  fighting  chance  had  won.  He  was  permitted  to 
see  her  before  he  left  the  hospital.  She  did  not 
know  him,  and  he  thought  that  they  must  be  mis- 
taken. He  had  never  seen  any  one  look  so  ill.  The 
fever  flush  had  left  her  cheeks,  and  the  whole  face 
was  so  drawn  and  pitiful  that  he  turned  away  with 
a  shudder. 

"On  your  honor,"  he  whispered,  to  the  nurse 
nearest  him,  "on  your  honor  you  think  she  will 
get  better?" 

"We  have  every  hope,"  she  answered  gently. 
"This  morning  there  was  none.  But  she  has  a  fine 


AND  LAST  303 

constitution.    We  have  made  a  beginning,  at  any 
rate." 

And  with  this  he  had  to  be  content. 
***** 

When  he  reached  his  hotel,  spent  and  weary, 
Hayes  was  waiting  for  him  with  a  rueful  coun- 
tenance. 

"Fve  got  bad  news,"  he  said.  "Our  man  tried 
to  get  away — slipped  off  as  they  were  putting  him 
in  the  wagon  to  take  him  back  to  town " 

"Escaped !"  cried  Gregory. 

"Escaped  human  justice,  at  any  rate,"  was  the 
answer.  "Pierson  shot  him.  Just  meant  to  maim 
him,  but  he  ducked,  and  the  bullet  caught  him 
plumb  in  the  back  of  the  head." 

Gregory  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
raised  his  haggard,  tired  eyes  to  Hayes'  face. 

"I  hope  God  won't  hold  it  against  me,  if  I  look 
upon  his  taking  off  as  a  blessing,"  he  said.  "I 
thank  Him  that  He  has  found  His  own  way  to 
deal  with  a  man  who  has  brought  trouble  and 
suffering  in  his  train  wherever  he  went.  I 
think  Pierson's  bullet  was  an  act  of  divine  provi- 
dence." 

"One  can't  blame  you  for  thinking  so,  Mr.  Lack- 


304  AND  LAST 

land,"  said  Hayes.    "He's  out  of  the  way  forever 
now — he  can't  do  any  one  any  more  harm." 

"And  again  thanks  be  to  God!"  said  Gregory. 
"Will  you  join  me  at  supper?  I  have  time  to  be 
hungry  now  that  they  give  me  hopes  of  Miss  Faulk- 
ner. And  I  want  to  decide  what  is  to  be  done  for 
that  brave  little  lad  to  whom  we  owe  so  much.  I 
feel  as  if  nothing  I  can  do,  ever,  will  repay  him." 

"I'll  take  care  of  him,  Mr.  Lackland,"  said 
Hayes.  "I  think  there's  something  to  that  lad. 
And  I  guess  he's  pretty  poor." 

"All  the  better,"  said  Gregory  briefly.  "I'll  at- 
tend to  that  part." 

***** 

It  was  a  month  before  Pauline,  convalescent, 
was  moved,  by  easy  stages,  to  Lyndhurst.  Mrs. 
Lackland,  confined  to  her  bed  altogether,  still  lin- 
gered, however,  seeming,  as  it  were,  to  crave  Paul- 
ine's presence.  After  the  girl's  coming  she  slowly 
declined  again,  until  the  end,  going  out  of  life  so 
peacefully  and  gently  that  they  could  scarcely 
deem  it  death.  Pale  and  thin,  the  shadow  of  her- 
self, Pauline's  courage  was  unfailing.  She  sat  be- 
side the  woman  whom  she  had  loved  so  truly  and 
held  her  hand  in  hers  until  the  last  fluttering 


AND  LAST  305 

breath  had  left  her  lips,  and  when  Gregory  threw 
himself  on  his  knees  in  an  outburst  of  natural 
grief,  her  other  hand  sought  him  with  comforting, 
gentle  touch.  They  had  expected  it  so  long,  and 
the  end  was  so  easy  and  so  painless,  as  of  one  go- 
ing quietly,  on  a  pleasant  journey,  into  another 
and  more  joyous  land. 

Of  what  had  happened — of  the  agony  she  had 
endured  during  that  fearful  night,  Pauline  could 
not  bring  herself  to  speak,  nor  would  Gregory  per- 
mit her  mind  to  dwell  on  it.  Muriel  was  living 
with  them  at  Lyndhurst,  and  in  the  quiet  serenity 
of  the  life,  after  the  storm  and  stress  of  the  pre- 
ceding years,  she  was  slowly  regaining  some  of  her 
old  prettiness.  She  had  not  heard  from,  her  hus- 
band ;  there  had  evidently  been  little  love  lost  on 
either  side.  She  had  married  him  because  com- 
pelled to;  he,  because  it  would  further  whatever 
purpose  he  had  in  view.  She  did  not  expect  to  hear 
from  him,  she  told  Pauline,  and  would  be  glad  to 
be  let  alone,  to  work  out  her  salvation  in  her  own 
way. 

Whatever  Marion  Sigogne  had  hoped  to  accom- 
plish by  her  alliance  with  Julian  Stanhope,  was 
nullified  by  his  complete  disappearance.  Of  the 


366  AXD  LAST 

actual  truth  she  suspected  nothing,  and  in  the  first 
dazed  stage  of  her  recovery  Pauline  often  asked 
herself  if  she  had  not  dreamed  that  part  of  her 
adventure.  Later  on,  as  the  mists  cleared  from 
her  puzzled  brain,  she  saw  everything  distinctly. 
She  never  knew  how  Julian  Stanhope — Wilfrid 
Penniston,  rather — traced  her  on  that  night,  nor 
when  or  how  he  had  laid  his  plans. 

She  had  not  told  Gregory — she  could  tell  no  one. 
At  least  not  until  she  could  look  back  without  a 
shudder.  But  on  the  night  before  their  wedding, 
seated  on  the  broad  terrace,  the  moonlight  enfold- 
ing them  in  the  tender  benediction  of  its  pure 
white  glow,  she  related  all — in  little,  halting  sen- 
tences, with  long  pauses  in  between.  From  the 
room  beyond  came  Bertram's  deep  tones  and 
Helen's  charming  ones.  They  were  chatting  mer- 
rily. They  had  known  neither  storm  nor  stress, 
their  hearts  had  not  yet  been  tried,  and  in  this 
they  were  altogether  removed  from  the  atmosphere 
surrounding  these  two. 

"The  one  horror  that  I  remember  best  is  the  ter- 
rible fear  that  some  power  greater  than  my  will 
would  compel  me  to  summon  him.  It  was  not  so 
much  the  craving  for  food  and  water — it  was  the 


AND  LAST  307 

agony  of  the  thought  that  he  would  come  again. 
Once  I  imagined  he  came  up  and  stood  in  the  door- 
way looking  at  me.  Perhaps  he  did — I  don't 
know.  But  I  screamed  out  my  hatred  of  him — 
and  I  knew  that  while  I  could  make  him  feel  my 
hatred  and  contempt,  he.  could  never  conquer  me." 
She  hid  her  face  on  Gregory's  shoulder,  trem- 
bling and  shaken,  and  he  smoothed  her  hair  with 
gentle  fingers.  The  past  few  months  had  engraven 
deep  lines  about  his  mouth  and  between  his  brows, 
and  there  were  a  few  white  hairs  showing  at  his 
temples.  But  the  brown  eyes  were  serene  and  con- 
fident. He  was  sure  of  himself.  He  had  con- 
quered all  his  difficulties,  and  the  morrow  would 
pee  him  wedded  to  the  one  woman  of  his  heart  and 
life — the  woman  who  had  been  tested  and  proven 
true,  and  whose  gentle  and  loving  spirit  would  fill 
bis  days  to  completeness.  He  asked  no  more,  but 
thanked  God  for  His  great  blessings — the  crown- 
ing blessing  that  He  had  bestowed  in  leaving  her 
to  him.  The  stranger  had  reached  her  journey's 
end — the  haven  of  a  good  man's  heart. 


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NOVELS,  POETRY,  ETC. 

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HILL.  1  25 

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MJSROR  OF  SHALOTT,  THE.  BENSON.  tut.  1  60 


MISS  ERIN.     FRANCIS. 

MONK'S  PARDON,  THE.     NAVEBY. 

MR.  BILLY  BUTTONS.     LKCKY. 

MY  LADY  BEATRICE.     COOKE. 

KOT  A  JUDGMENT.     KEON. 

OTHER  MISS  LISLE,  THE.     MARTIN. 

OUT  OF  BONDAGE.     HOLT. 

OUTLAW  OF  CAMARGUE,  THE.    DE  LAMOTH*. 

PASSING  SHADOWS.     YORKE. 

PASSION    FLOWERS.      Poems.     HILL. 

"PAT."     HINKSON.  net, 

PERE  MONNIER'S  WARD.    LECKY. 

PILKINGTON  HEIR,  THE.     SADLIER. 

PRISONERS'   YEARS.     CLARKE.  net, 

PRODIGAL'S  DAUGHTER,  THE.     BUGC. 

RED  INN  AT  ST.  LYPHAR,  THE.     SADLIER. 

ROAD  BEYOND  THE  TOWN,  THE,  AND  OTHER 
POEMS.     EARLS. 

ROMANCE  OF  A  PLAYWRIGHT,  THE.     BORNIER. 

ROSE  OF  THE  WORLD.     MARTIN. 

ROUND  TABLE  OF  AMERICAN  CATHOLIC  NOV- 
ELISTS. 

ROUND  TABLE  OF  IRISH  AND  ENGLISH  CATH- 
OLIC NOVELISTS. 

ROUND    TABLE    OF   GERMAN    CATHOLIC    NOV- 
ELISTS. 

ROUND    TABLE    OF    FRENCH    CATHOLIC    NOV- 
ELISTS. 

ROUND  THE  WORLD  SERIES.    Vol.  I. 

ROUND  THE  WORLD  SERIES.    Vol.  II. 

ROUND  THE  WORLD  SERIES.    Vol.  III. 

ROUND  THE  WORLD  SERIES.    Vol.  IV. 

ROUND  THE  WORLD  SERIES.    Vol.  V. 

ROUND  THE  WORLD  SERIES.    Vol.  VI. 

ROUND  THE  WORLD  SERIES.    Vol.  VII. 

ROUND  THE  WORLD  SERIES.    Vol.  VIII. 

ROUND  THE  WORLD  SERIES.    Vol.  IX. 

ROUND  THE  WORLD  SERIES.    Vol.  X. 

RULER  OF  THE  KINGDOM,   THE.     KEON. 

SECRET  OF  THE  GREEN  VASE,  THE.     COOKE. 

SHADOW  OF  EVERSLEIGH,  THE.     LANSDOWNB. 

SO  AS  BY  FIRE.     CONNOR. 

SOGGARTH    AROON.     GUINAN. 

SON  OF   SIRO,  THE.     COPUS. 

SONGS   AND    SONNETS.      EGAN. 

STORY   OF   CECILIA,  THE.     HINKSOM. 

STUORE.     EARLS. 

TEMPEST  OF  THE  HEART,  THE.     GRAY. 

TEST  OF  COURAGE,  THE.     Ross. 

THAT  MAN'S   DAUGHTER.     Ross. 

THEIR   CHOICE.     SKINNER. 

THROUGH  THE  DESERT.     SIENKIEWICZ.  net, 

TRAINING  OF   SILAS.     DEVINE,    S.T. 

TRUE     STORY     OF     MASTER     GEI 
SADLIER. 

TURN   OF  THE  TIDE,   THE.     GRAY. 

UNBIDDEN   GUEST,  THE.     COOKE. 

UNRAVELLING  OF  A  TANGLE,  THE.     TAGGAKT. 

,UP  IN  ARDMUIRLAND.    BARHKT.  ntt, 


A  series  of 

I  i  n  t  e  r  e  sting 
articles  on  a 
great  variety 

>of  subjects  of 
much  educa- 

.tional  value. 

(Profusely  il- 

'  lustrated. 


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VOCATION  OF  EDWARD  CONWAY,  THE.    EGAN.  1  26 

WARGRAVE  TRUST,  THE.     REID.  1  26 

WAY  THAT  LED   BEYOND,  THE.     HARRISON.  1  25 
WEDDING     BELLS     OF     GLENDALOUGH,     THE. 

EARLS.  net,  1  35 

WHEN  LOVE  IS  STRONG.     KEON.  1  25 

WOMAN  OF  FORTUNE.     CHRISTIAN  REID.  1  26 

WORLD  WELL  LOST,  THE.     ROBERTSON.  0  75 

JUVENILES. 

ALTHEA.     NIRDLINGER.  0  60 

ADVENTURE  WITH  THE  APACHES,  AN.    FEMY.  0  46 

AS  GOLD  IN  THE  FURNACE.     COPUS.  0  85 

AS  TRUE  AS  GOLD.     MANNIX.  0  45 

BELL  FOUNDRY,   THE.     SCHACHING.  0  45 

BERKLEYS,   THE.     WIGHT.  0  45 

BEST   FOOT    FORWARD,   THE.     FINW.  0  85 

BETWEEN   FRIENDS.     AUMERLE.  0  85 

BISTOURI.      MELANDRI.  0  45 

BLISSYLVANIA  POST-OFFICE,  THE.     TAGGAET.  0  45 

BOB-O'-LINK.     WAGGAMAN.  0  45 

BROWNIE  AND  I.    AUMERLE.  0  85 

BUNT  AND  BILL.     C.   MULHOLLAND.  0  45 

BY   BRANSCOME   RIVER.     TAGGART.  0  45 

CAPTAIN  TED.     WAGGAMAN.  0  60 

CAVE  BY  THE  BEECH  FORK,  THE.     SPALDING.  0  85 

CHARLIE   CHITTYWICK.     BEARNE.  0  85 

CHILDREN  OF  CUPA.     MANNIX.  0  45 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  LOG  CABIN.     DELAWARE.  0  85 

CLARE  LORAINE.     "LEE."  0  85 

CLAUDE  LIGHTFOOT.     FINN.  0  85 

COLLEGE  BOY,  A.     YORKE.  0  85 

CUPA    REVISITED.     MANNIX.  0  45 

DADDY   DAN.     WAGGAMAN.  0  45 

DEAR   FRIENDS.     NIRDLINGER.  0  60 

DIMPLING'S  SUCCESS.     C.  MULHOLLAND.  0  45 

DOLLAR  HUNT,  THE.     E.  C.  MARTIN.  0  45 

ETHELRED  PRESTON.     FINN.  0  85 

EVERY-DAY  GIRL,  AN.     CROWLEY.  0  45 

FAIRY  OF  THE  SNOWS,  THE.     FINN,  S.J.  0  85 

FIVE   O'CLOCK   STORIES.  0  50 

FLOWER  OF  THE  FLOCK.    EGAN.  0  85 

FOR  THE  WHITE  ROSE.     HINKSON.  0  45 

FREDDY   CARR'S   ADVENTURES.     GARROLD.  0  85 

FREDDY  CARR  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.     GARROLD.  0  85 

FRED'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER.     S.  T.  SMITH.  0  45 

GOLDEN   LILY,   THE.     HINKSON.  0  45 

GREAT    CAPTAIN,    THE.     HINKSON.  0  45 

GUILD   BOYS   OF    RIDINGDALE.     BEARNE,   S.J.  0  85 

HALDEMAN  CHILDREN,  THE.     MANNIX.  0  45 

HARMONY  FLATS.     WHITMIRE.  0  85 

HARRY  DEE.     FINN,   S.J.  0  85 

HARRY  RUSSELL.     COPUS,  S.J.  0  85 

HEIR  OF  DREAMS,   AN.     O'MALLEY.  0  45 

HIS  FIRST  AND  LAST  APPEARANCE.     FINK,  S.J.  1  00 

HOSTAGE  OF  WAR.     BONESTEEL.  0  45 

HOW  THEY   WORKED   THEIR  WAY.     EGAN.  0  85 

IN  QUEST  OF  THE  GOLDEN  CHEST.     BARTON.  1  16 


"JACK."  0  46 

TACK  HILDRETH  ON  THE  NILE.     TAGCATT.  0  85 

TACK  O'LANTERN.     WAGGAMAN.  0  45 

JUNIORS    OF   ST.    BEDE'S.     BRYSON.  0  85 

JUVENILE  ROUND  TABLE.   First  Series.  i  oo 

JUVENILE  ROUND  TABLE.     Second   Series.  1  00 

JUVENILE  ROUND  TABLE.     Third  Series.  1  00 

KLONDIKE  PICNIC,  A.     DONNELLY.  0  85 
LEGENDS  AND  STORIES  OF  THE  CHILD  JESUS 

FROM   MANY   LANDS.     LUTZ.  0  50 

LITTLE  APOSTLE  ON  CRUTCHES,  THE.  DELAMARK.  0  45 

LITTLE  GIRL  FROM  BACK  EAST,  THE.     ROBERTS.  0  45 

LITTLE  MARSHALLS  AT  THE  LAKE.  NIXON-ROULET  0  60 

LITTLE  MISSY.     WAGGAMAN.  0  45 

LOYAL  BLUE  AND  ROYAL  SCARLET.     TAGGART.  0  85 

MADCAP  SET  AT  ST.  ANNE'S,  THE.     BRUNOWE.  0  45 

MAKING  OF  MORTLAKE,  THE.     COPUS,  S.J.  0  85 

MARKS  OF  THE  BEAR  CLAWS,  THE.  SPALDING,  S.J.  0  85 

MARY  TRACY'S   FORTUNE.     SADLIER.  0  45 

MELOR  OF  THE  SILVER  HAND.     BEARNE,  S.J.  0  85 

MILLY  AVELING.     S.  T.   SMITH.  0  85 

MORE    FIVE   O'CLOCK    STORIES.  0  50 

MOSTLY  BOYS.     FINN,  S.J.  0  85 

MYSTERIOUS  DOORWAY,  THE.     SADLIER.  0  45 

MYSTERY  OF  CLEVERLY,  THE.     BARTON.  0  85 

MYSTERY  OF  HORNBY  HALL,  THE.     SADLIEK.  0  85 

NAN   NOBODY.     WAGGAMAN.  0  45 

NED   RIEDER.     WEHS.  0  85 

NEW  BOYS  AT  RIDINGDALE,  THE.     BEARNE,  S.J.  0  85 

NEW  SCHOLAR  AT  ST.  ANNE'S,  THE.     BRUNOWE.  0  85 

OLD  CHARLMONT'S  SEED  BED.    S.  T.  SMITH.  0  45 

OLD  MILL  ON  THE  WITHROSE.     SPALDING,  S.J.  0  85 

OUR   LADY'S   LUTENIST.     BEARNE,   S.J.  «  Si 

PANCHO  AND  PANCHITA.     MANNIX.  0  45 

PAULINE  ARCHER.     SADLIER.  0  45 

PERCY  WYNN.     FINN,  S.J.  0  85 

PERIL  OF  DIONYSIO.     MANNIX.  0  45 

PETRONILLA,  AND  OTHER  STORIES.    DONNELLY.  0  85 

PICKLE  AND  PEPPER.     DORSEY.  0  85 

PILGRIM  1-ROM  IRELAND,  A.     CARNOT.  0  45 

PLAYWATER  PLOT.     WAGGAMAN.  0  60 

POVERINA.     BUCKENHAM.  0  85 

QUEEN'S   PAGE,  THE.     HINKSON.  0  45 

QUEEN'S  PROMISE,  THE.     WAGGAMAN.  0  60 

RACE  FOR  COPPER  ISLAND,  THE.     SPALDING,  S.J.  0  8f 

RECRUIT   TOMMY   COLLINS.     BONESTEEL.  0  45 

RIDINGDALE  FLOWER  SHOW.     BEARNE,  S.J.  0  85 

ROMANCE  OF  THE  SILVER  SHOON.     BEARNE,  S.J.  0  85 

SEA-GULLS'   ROCK,  THE.     SANDEAU.  0  45 

SEVEN  LITTLE  MARSHALLS,  THE.    NIXON-ROULET.  0  45 

SHADOWS   LIFTED.     COPUS,  S.J.  0  85 

SHEER  PLUCK.     BEARNE,  S.J.  0  85 

SHERIFF  OF  THE  BEECH  FORK,  THE.  SPALDING,  S.J.  0  85 

ST.  CUTHBERT'S.     COPUS,    S.J.  0  85 

STRONG-ARM  OF  AVALON.     WAGGAMAN.  0  85 

SUGAR-CAMP  AND  AFTER,  THE.     SPALDING,  S.J.  0  85 

SUMMER  AT  WOODVILLE,  A.     SADLIER.  0  45 
TALES  AND  LEGENDS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 

CAMILLA.  0  V 


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